


Those Who Need It

by tea_and_outer_space



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Baking, Cancer, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Depression, Disabled Character, F/M, Foster Care, Gen, Group Therapy, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Multi, Muteness, Paralysis, Past Child Abuse, Physical Disability, Polyamory, Support Groups, Wheelchairs, everyone is disabled or chronically ill p much, i love the old people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-09-07 15:42:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8806711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tea_and_outer_space/pseuds/tea_and_outer_space
Summary: In a small desert town, there's a community center.And in that community center, there's the Teenage Support Group For Those With Physical Disabilities.And in that support group?People find family.





	1. Outliers and Limbs

****The Shimada manor residing in Nevada doesn't often receive visitors.

It's home to only two of the Shimada's, it's rather out of the way, and it's 'small', as far as multi-billion dollar mansions go. It's not the perfect picture that the noble family wanted to display, so it's the last place that they would invite guests.

Of course, Jesse McCree is an outlier, and therefore shouldn't be counted.

Jesse visited the house so often that it's practically his home by extension, and if Hanzo and Genji would have had their way, he would have lived there full time. Being best friends with Hanzo and practically an older brother to Genji, the high school senior with a cowboy fetish spent far more time there than even the Shimada parents.

The staff know him by name, he has five pairs of extra clothing squirreled away in various rooms in case of impromptu sleepovers, and he knows how to swagger into any room like he owns it.

And with the accident still looming heavy over everyone's heads, Jesse tries to tell himself that his showing up isn't really a surprise, they should expect it, and everything will be fine.

As he climbs over the wrought iron fence that loops around the property, far too lazy to wait for someone to come and open it, he tries to tell himself that everything will be fine.

Everything _has_ to be fine.

And soon enough he's on the doorstep, and he still doesn't believe himself.

Jesse glances down at his feet, momentarily chastising himself for not cleaning up his boots before. While the maids are generally docile, getting mud on any of the white tile or faint green carpet would be a surefire way to get a throughout scolding (while Hanzo and Genji watch, bemused. _Assholes_ ).

He stretches out a calloused hand and rings the doorbell, and as he waits he tried wiping his feet on the doormat. He gets most of the dirt off, reducing his future scolding down to just a few sharp glares.

Not a minute passes by before the door calmly edges open, a tidy looking man standing at full attention. Once he realizes it's just Jesse at the door, the man relaxes slightly, before a flash of apprehension crosses his features.

Jesse offers up a charming smile.

(Making adults/rich people/fancy folk nervous is one of his favorite hobbies.)

“Mister McCree,” the butler greets.

“Like I told ya before, Mr. Takahashi, you can just call me Jesse,” Jesse says, words ringing with southern charm. Five years in Nevada is not enough to take New Mexico out of his drawl.

He attempts to glance behind the tall butler, but doesn't manage to catch a glimpse of either of the Shimada brothers. Although, he figures that neither of them would be up and about just yet.

“Mr- _Jesse_ , I'm afraid Master Hanzo told me to send away all visitors. He, ah, he isn't quite feeling up to entertaining company.”

Jesse resists the urge to roll his eyes. Typical.

“Look, I swear I'm here for a good reason,” Jesse says. He pretends not to notice Mr. Takahashi attempting to subtly edge the door shut, but preps himself to dart under the butlers arm and make for Hanzo's room at a sprint, just in case.

The butler bites his lip, his calm facade dropping for just a split second.

“Were you informed as to what happened, Mr. McCree?” he asks.

Jesse drops the smile, and he nods.

He knows what happened probably better than anyone else, save for the brothers.

“I was the first one Hanzo called,” he says, magically managing to keep his voice even, “I was at the hospital when they were there, but they wouldn't let me see either of them, because for _some_ reason they wouldn't believe my 'oh, I'm half Mexican and they're Japanese but yeah I'm totally their brother so I count as family' shtick. So I haven't seen them since. And I know Hanzo is probably being all stoic and gruff and I know Genji needs something more than that and I know you're just doing your job, but _please_ , sir, I gotta see 'em.”

The butler hesitates for a moment more, before letting out a sigh, and stepping out of the doorway.

“If anyone asks, you broke in,” he says, “We all adore you here, but I am _not_ losing this job because of you.”

“Got it,” Jesse replies, flashing up another charming grin at the man. “Thank you so much.”

“Uh, Jesse,” Mr. Takahashi says, before Jesse could bound up the stairs. (Jesse glances back, and fidgets with his serape while he resists the urge to shimmy up the stairs on all fours at lightning speed.) “I'd... I'd recommend avoiding Master Hanzo. He's not coping well, he hasn't been out of his room since returning from the hospital. If you do try to interact with him, please be gentle.”

Jesse nods, a slight frown tugging on his lips.

“I can give him his space if he wants that,” he says.

 _For now, anyway. If he keeps locking me out and ignoring my texts, I'm gonna climb through the bastards window and duct tape him to the ceiling so I can talk sense into him,_ he thinks.

(He doesn't dare voice it though, because getting kicked out by the butler and receiving a restraining order didn't manage to make his to do list today.)

“I mainly planned on talking to Genji anyway,” Jesse says.

(Which is the truth. Mostly. He doesn't bring up the kidnapping plans. Again, restraining orders aren't quite wanted at the moment.)

“Do... do you know what he currently, ah, looks like?” the butler presses, “I just don't want you to be startled and upset him.”

Jesse nods.

“Yeah, I read the doctors notes.”

(He conveniently leaves out the fact that he had stole the notes in order to read them.)

With nothing more to be said between them, Jesse moves upstairs, forcing himself to a slower pace than he would have preferred. He 's practically itching to see his two closest friends again, but he knows that jumping back into their life like a cannonball into their pool last summer would just end with all of them getting wet. (And not wet in the good way. The bad way. The probably drowning way. He feels like he's running too far with the metaphor, and shifts his mind back on reasoning himself to not rush.)

Jesse knows what Genji's probably feeling. His serape is currently hiding the reason why he knows. And he knows that if Hanzo or Genji had busted up in his house back then, he'd probably would have figured out some way to kick their asses.

These things need to be handled gently, and although Jesse is as callous as John Wayne, he forces himself to go slow.

Plus, he really doesn't feel like getting a scolding from Hanzo. That could wait.

Talking to Genji couldn't.

Jesse moves through the manor as easy as he would walk about his own home. While others would easily get lost in the mazes of polished halls and discreet walkways, he knows it like he knows his hat. A left, a right, left, left, right.

And while he walks, he runs a small list over in his head.

_Severe burns, inoperable leg damage, crushed arm, bad bruising._

He tries to prepare himself. He hasn't seen Genji since before the accident, and all he has to go on was hastily scribbled out doctors notes and his own conclusions. He isn't even sure if those doctors notes were accurate or even the whole story, from what Jesse had pried from the staff both brothers had been through hell and back. One overnight stay for Hanzo, but dozens of tests and surgeries for Genji.

Jesse McCree soon finds himself in front of the bedroom door of the youngest Shimada brother, and he hesitates.

He swallows thickly, and finds his eyes flitting to the door just across the hall.

Hanzo's door.

Jesse shakes his head lightly. That whole mess, lecture, and fight could be saved for later.

He exhales, gives a soft knock on Genji's door, and steps in.

None of Jesse's attempts to prepare for this could have made him expect what he finds.

Genji's sitting in his bed, propped up by feathery pillows, his dull eyes on the TV in front of him. There's a slight grimace on his features, and Jesse's positive that it was accompanied with pain.

He's in a plain t-shirt and shorts, and almost every piece of skin is covered in stark white bandages.

And his legs are gone. As is his arm.

His legs were both amputated slightly above the knees, and his left forearm is missing entirely.

Jesse knew that things would be bad.

(Understatement.)

He knew when he walked in that Genji was going to have less than the general amount of limbs and most likely be mangled.

_(Understatement.)_

But the sight of his friend so broken still struck him in a way he couldn't have prepared for.

_**(Understatement.)** _

“You gonna keep on staring or come in?” Genji's says, not even looking away from his television.

Despite the circumstances, a small smile slips on Jesse's features.

_Those damn Shimada's and their damn super senses._

“Long time no see,” Jesse drawls, moving into the spacious bedroom. It's probably as big as his entire house, if not bigger, _damn rich people_. “Or long time no hear, or touch, or smell, all that.”

“You forgot taste,” Genji supplies, his eyes flicking up to Jesse as he (deliberately) stands in front of the TV.

“I don't think I ever tasted either of you,” Jesse replies, “No plans on it, either.”

Genji rolls his eyes. Despite missing limbs and more than a little of his will to live, he's still able to show his incredulousness.

“Sure, fine, let's all forget about the time you and Hanzo were in that pile of hay and-”

“I _swear_ that was an accident.”

“You don't just bite people on accident, McCree. He still has the scar. Probably would of taken out a chuck of his ear if you weren't scared of blood.”

Jesse raises one eyebrow.

“A lot of things are hard to do on accident, now that you bring it up.” He leans forward and snatches the television remote up, turning off the TV, before flinging the remote out of reach. He then hops up on the bed, sitting with his legs crisscrossed, his expression showing he isn't quite in the mood for bullshit. “Like breaking into hospital records, nearly having to bribe your butler, and a handful of other things. All rather deliberate. Because you guys aren't bein' deliberate. I've been texting Hanzo for months, no reply. And no messages from you, either.”

A sarcastic smile crosses Genji's lips, and he lifts what remains of his left arm, holding it up for a moment.

“Kinda hard to text when you're missing a hand,” he says, dry. “Also kinda hard to text when you're in surgery, or wake up from a mini-coma and find out your limbs are all gone, or dealing with your brother going into hibernation, or having to explain to your parents that while they're gallivanting all over Europe I nearly died, and, oh, shall I continue?”

Jesse stares at him for a moment.

A small smile crosses his features.

“Glad to know that you're still a little shit,” he says, leaning forward to ruffle the younger boy's bright green hair.

Genji forms a smile of his own, and soon pushes Jesse off.

“Dude, not the hair,” he admonishes.

Jesse grabs his signature hat, and takes it off to perch it on Genji's head. It tips down a bit, a little loose on the fifteen year old's head.

“Bam, fixed,” Jesse says. “Hats, the cure for fucked up hair.”

“Is that why you wear one all the time, then?” Genji replies, with a shit eating grin.

“You've lost hat rights,” Jesse shoots back, snatching the hat off of Genji's head. “You may wear it for five minutes when you accept my hair as your lord and savior.”

“In your dreams, scruffy.”

Jesse glares.

Genji glares back.

“Y'know Hanzo will kill you if he find out your here,” Genji states, after the impromptu glare-off.

“And that's why Hanzo isn't going to find out,” Jesse replies, shifting back into something more serious. “I've been worried, with all the radio silence from you two. And it appears I have every right to be.”

Genji shrugs as best he can with the bandages wrapped tight about him.

“I mean, it's not like I'm going anywhere,” he says, “Besides, Hanzo's not talking to anybody. Hasn't said a word to me since the accident.”

“Want me to kick his ass for ya?”

“Nah, he's just being his emo self. Let him listen to MCR and write angsty poetry or whatever he does in that diary. He'll come around. I will take a rain check, though.”

“Right, we'll give him his space. It'll make what I have planned easier.”

“McCree-”

“We're gonna need several bushes, bungee cords, maybe some smoke bombs.

“ _McCree-”_

“Three to five sheets. Sunglasses for both of us. And ice cream.”

“Jesse!”

Jesse looks up at Genji one more, and tilts his head innocently.

“What?”

“What are you planning?” Genji asks, the tiredness in his voice proof enough that he had been a part of many, many of Jesse's schemes.

“I'm kidnapping you. Technically. I mean, your brother is your legal guardian, and I am taking you without his knowledge, so I guess it's not 'technically' kidnapping, more like straight up kidnapping, but I doubt Hanzo will press charges. Probably.”

“Do I have any say in this?”

“Little to none, but a positive outlook would be nice.”

Genji stares at him.

“And you need all that stuff for whatever you have planned?”

“Well, what I have planned won't take any stuff,” Jesse says, “All that stuff is for the kidnapping part of the plan. Not what follows.”

“Explain.”

“Bushes to throw your wheelchair into, because if we toss that thing off your balcony straight up, it'll probably break. Bungee chords to tie the wheelchair up into the back of my truck. Smoke bombs in case if we gotta evade any staff or Hanzo. Sheets to tie you up in so I can lower you off the balcony and then climb down myself. Although, if we have to be rushed, we're both diving into the bushes. We won't die, probably.”

“Ice cream is for ..?”

“This will probably work up my rocky road cravings.”

“And the sunglasses?”

“To make us look badass, of course.”

“You do know you're an idiot, right?”

“That's all part of the fun, Genj.”

Genji stares at Jesse.

“We have an elevator,” he says, after a moment.

A stark look of shock crosses Jesse's face, his mouth dropping, eyebrows furrowing. Genji bites down on his lip to stop himself from laughing.

“What- What the _fuck_? I've been knowing y'all for _five_ years, and you never once- what the _fuck_ , Genji?”

Genji lets out a small laugh, nowhere near the full on guffaws that want to come out, though. He doesn't want Hanzo hearing, and killing them both.

“Hanzo found your whining and sweating over the five flights up here hilarious. And it just kinda stuck.”

“I'm highly offended.”

“It means you won't have to do that bullshit plan of _flinging me, the disabled boy, into the bushes._ ”

“That plan wasn't bullshit,” Jesse returns. “But, fine, we'll take this _secret_ elevator of yours.”

Jesse glances down at his watch, and finds that it's nearing six in the evening.

“We gotta go soon. You're twenty minutes out of town, it'll take like five minutes to get to where we're going once we're in town, probably a little longer with traffic. Stuff starts at six, and we can't be late today.”

Genji tilts his head, his eyes sweeping over Jesse, trying to figure out exactly what the hell is going on in the cowboy kid's mind.

“Where are we going?” he asks.

Jesse takes in a deep breath.

He's kept this secret for almost a year now, and now it's time to come clean. He always imagined this moment would come when drunk with Hanzo, or during a prank with Genji.

He never thought it'd be when facing one of his closest friends in the same state Jesse was in just a year ago.

“Have you and Hanzo ever wondered why I'm always busy Wednesday evenings?” he asks, tentatively.

“To quote you, exactly, 'I'm busy fucking bitches and getting money',” Genji replies, complete with his best (horrible) impersonation of Jesse's southern drawl.

Jesse manages to muster up a small smile, even though he's not quite feeling it at the moment.

“I wish that was the case,” he says.

“So what is the case?”

Jesse bites his lip, hesitates, contemplates jumping off the balcony and landing in the bushes, running into the sunset, never to be seen again.

“I... I go to _therapy_ ,” he blurts out, after a moment.

Genji stares at him.

“It was my Abuela's idea, at first, so I went to make her happy, but then I found it was good for me, so I kept going,” Jesse rushes out. He's nervous, that much is evident, but he's not quite sure why.

He's being vulnerable, but Genji is also mostly limbless and definitely some form of depressed, so he supposes they're both being vulnerable right now.

“You see a psychologist?” Genji asks, his eyebrows furrowing. He never once saw Jesse be anything other than happy, so the idea of Jesse needing therapy is a tad bit foreign to him.

Jesse snorts.

"Genj, buddy, I hold my truck together with duct tape and my ceiling has more gaping holes than a harem of porn stars. I can't afford actual therapy."

Jesse figures he can't explain any more without revealing more, and so he does.

The first thing he slips off his his brown work glove, making sure to set it down on his lap and not Genji's pristine, mint green, silk sheets. _(Damn rich people)._ Next his his serape, placing that also on his lap, care quite evident.

Jesse slips a hand under his flannel shirt, and works on undoing the various straps and latches, and after a moment, he tugs off his left arm.

His silver prosthetic arm.

Shock quickly sweeps over Genji's features, him not quite sure how to process that, hey, his brothers best friend _is missing an arm_.

Despite the anxiety wracking in his chest, Jesse fends off a smile at Genji's mix of shock and confusion.

 _Payback for the elevator_ , he thinks.

“I lost it about a year ago. The details aren't important,” Jesse begins, sensing that Genji hasn't quite reclaimed his voice yet. “After it was gone, I went through a pretty bad state of depression. Losing limbs, being fucked up physically like I was back then, that'll do that to ya. Abuela was worried, so she did some research, and found that the community center in town has a support group for kids with disabilities or chronic illnesses. And that's that.”

Genji stares at Jesse's (lack of) arm for a moment or two more, before sweeping his eyes back up to the older boy's face.

“You've been missing your arm for a _year_?” he asks, “Why didn't you tell me? Hell, why didn't I even _notice_?”

“Well, I was kinda deliberately hiding it,” Jesse says, the slightest bit sheepish. “One of the things I had to work through, 'feelings of inadequacy due to my condition', as Jack would put it. I didn't want people to know because I didn't want them to think less of me, I guess. And even when I started working through that, I realized I kinda backed myself into a corner, it'd be a bit awkward to just take it off and go 'Hey guys, guess what!'”

“I... I suppose that makes sense,” Genji says, after a moment. His eyes wander down to his own arm, eyebrows furrowing softly.

“It makes sense because you're going through the same thing, Genji.”

Genji's brown eyes snaps back up to Jesse.

He lets out a soft laugh, attempting to slip back into the lightheartedness that was present just moments ago.  
“I'm not going through the same thing,” he says, and Jesse wants to believe him, but his bullshit detector is flying off the charts. “I didn't hide my... _it_ for a year. And I'm fine, really. Shit happened, I'm over it all. Totally fine.”

Jesse lets out a sigh.

“With the way you and your brother dance around heavy topics, you should be tangoing, not being ninjas.”

“I don't tango. I waltz. Maybe twerk a little, if I had enough sake.”

“ _Genji_ ,” Jesse says, voice clearly showing that now is _not_ the time for jokes. “I lost an arm. I know what that hell is like. I know about the pain, and the depression, and the self hatred, and the body issues. The phantom limb syndrome and doctors poking and prodding. I've been through it all. And it was hell. And it still is. And if I went through all of that just losing one arm, I can't imagine what you're going through right now.”

Genji stares at Jesse for a moment, and thinks about all the things he could do.

He could tell more jokes. He could dodge all these accusations (he was always good at deflecting). He could even shout at the top of his lungs for Hanzo, and watch the explosion between the two older boys go on.

Instead, Genji crumples.

His shoulders sag, his eyes are drawn down to his two stump limbs, and a small sigh escapes his lips.

All their lives, the Shimada boys were trained to not show weaknesses.

But Jesse McCree is always an exception.

“I feel...” Genji stutters out, after a moment. “It all... hurts. It...”

He stops, blinks, tries to think.

His family is falling apart because of this. Hanzo won't talk to him, his parents don't want to end their business abroad over this.

Everything hurts, he's barely alive, and nothing is the way it once was.

Genji wants to say it all, wants to just blurt it out and that's it, it's done, it's over. No therapy, no nothing, just him telling things to Jesse and getting it all the fuck over with.

His lips move, and nothing comes out. A few broken sounds, disjointed syllables. Soon enough his eyes water up, and Genji _hates_ it.

He swallows thickly, and manages to look up at Jesse with bleary eyes.

“I f-feel _broken_ , J-Jesse.”

That's all it takes for Jesse to practically fly across the bed, taking in the younger boy in a tight hug.

Genji cries.

Jesse doesn't let go.

Once Jesse's shirt is thoroughly wet, and Genji has no more tears left to cry, they part.

“I think you have some stuff to work out, Genj.”

“ _Fine_.”

“So you'll come with me?”

“If Hanzo finds out we're both dead. But, I can't believe I'm saying this, but take me to therapy, cowboy.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is my first Overwatch fanfic! I'm a bit nervous about it, especially since I'm hopping aboard the fandom so late, but I started thinking of disabled/chronically ill/mentally ill headcanons for everyone and I HAD to run with it.  
> I also feel its important to note that I myself am chronically ill/mentally ill, and a ton of the conditions I'll be giving the characters are ones I have myself. I try to research all I can about any conditions I give characters that I don't personally have, but if I do slip up and write something wrong or insensitive, please let me know! Also, no ableisim in the comments, please and thank you!
> 
> This fic is going to feature everyone, and quite a few more characters will be showing up in the next chapter. Ships, characters, and tags will be added as they appear. Next chapter will hopefully be up next week.
> 
> Anyway! Let me know what you think, please! <3


	2. Two Grumpy Men, Eight Sick Teens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which paper cranes are made, group therapy is had, and Genji is gay.

He folds paper cranes.

Some people write, some draw, others dance, and some bastards have the money for therapy.

Jack Morrison folds paper cranes.

Every crease is exact, fingers wander over the folds with a delicacy he only reserved for guns and origami, and-

 _Footsteps_.

Jack tilts his head in the direction he knows the door is, and raises his eyebrows. His eyes look right through Gabriel, as if the man were smoke.

“You of all people should know you can't sneak up on me,” Jack says, a smug smile appearing on his lips.

“You're in my office, Jackie,” Gabriel returns, sounding dead serious (despite the pet name).

Despite his generally calm demeanor, Jack's eyebrows furrow, and he turns his head on instinct, as if he could see the room around him.

A heartbeat later and Gabriel erupts into coarse laughter, no doubt shaking through his entire body. Jack is almost tempted to join him, but he'll be damned before he lets Gabriel Reyes know that one of his jokes were funny.

“Making fun of a blind man,” Jack says, rising from his chair (because it is, in fact, his office). “Y'know, I could send in a complaint, get you fired.”

“One, we're volunteers. Two, even if I could be fired, no one would, they're too scared of me.”

“I wonder what causes that, with your dazzling personality and ever-bright smile,” Jack replies dryly. He swipes off his cane from the top of his desk, unfolding it, and leans down to grab the handle on 76's harness. The seeing eye dog rises up to his feet, and him and Jack move from behind the desk to stand by Gabriel.

“Time?” Jack asks.

“Five minutes til eighteen hundred. Ready for battle, soldier?”

“I don't think the kids would appreciate therapy being referred to as battle.”

Gabriel slings an arm about Jack's shoulders.

“When is dealing with those brats ever not a battle?” Gabriel says, although there is an undeniable hint of fondness to his tone. The kids were brats, in his opinion, but they were _his_ brats.

Jack opens his mouth to reply, when another set of footsteps draw the attention of his hearing.

Spurs. That means none other than Jesse McCree.

Because who else in 2016 wears spurs?

(No one with a damn lick of fashion sense, that's who.)

“Wait here,” Jesse says, speaking to someone out in the hall.

Gabriel removes his arm from about Jack, and though they're not touching, Jack can practically feel the man tensing up.

A moment later there's a knock on Jack's open office door, and the sound of spurs grow ever closer.

“Hey Jack, Gabriel,” Jesse greets, an impish smile on his lips. Gabriel knows that smile. The kid wants something.

Jesse crosses the room, standing close to the two men, and he drops his voice so he can't be heard outside the three of them.

“I know y'all have a process and everything, but I kinda need a favor,” he says.

Those brown eyes are staring up in puppy dog fashion, and Gabriel thinks its a good thing that Jack's blind, because he's an absolute sucker for puppy dog eyes.  
“Everything alright, Jesse?” Jack asks, tilting his head down in the direction of the teen.

“Uh, not really. My friend, that's him, out in the hall right there, **HEY GENJI WAVE** , yeah, that's him. He was in a really bad accident a few months back, and well, it's pretty obvious he ain't in good shape. We talked a bit back at his place, and I think the groups just what he needs, is it cool if he comes to today's session? And possibly all the other sessions, too?”

Jesse looks up at the two men, hope in his eyes. While he didn't take either of the men as the kind to turn away anyone who needed help, he still felt a bit of anxiety rising up. After sneaking Genji out of the house (no smoke bombs were needed after all), and the entire mess of getting him into the car and then into town, he didn't want it all to be for nothing.

“We'd love to, Jesse, but you know we do have a system,” Jack says, tentatively, “We like to talk to new people one-on-one first, get the OK from their parents, so-”

“Yeah, he can come,” Gabriel cuts in. “You guys go in the room, if anyone's there tell him that me and Morrison will be in in a few minutes.”

“Ga-” Jack is cut off when Gabriel latches onto his arm in a death grip.

Jesse decides not to comment on the obvious shushing of Jack, and he bounds back off to Genji.

“Gabriel, we have a process not for our sake, but so we can prepare and help kids properly,” Jack admonishes, once he's sure Jesse and his friend are out of earshot, “This isn't favoritism, is it?”

“Jesse is not my favorite,” Gabriel says, ignoring the fact that Jesse is, in fact, his favorite. “You didn't see that kid he brought in.”

Jack blinks.

“Obviously.”

“Missing both legs, one arm, eyes puffy from tears, practically more bandages than skin. In a wheelchair that he's probably not gonna get out of.”

Jack pauses for a moment, forming a mental image of what the kid might look like.

“Yeah, we're adopting him.”

“Knew you'd say that, softie.”

“Fuck off, Reyes.”

“Someday, Jackie, but not today. Today, we got battle ahead.”

-

Jesse excitedly bounds back to Genji, a smile firmly on his lips as he approaches his tiny friend.

“Guess what!” he exclaims, trying to keep a positive tone for Genji's sake. Despite being an utter wreck at bringing someone into his “safe place”, the support group, he doesn't dare show it. He has to be brave for Genji now, he decides.

“Lemme guess, they decided to not turn away the mostly limbless crippled kid?” Genji says, sarcasm laced in every tone.

Jesse drops the smile and shoots him a glare, before moving around to behind Genji's wheelchair.

“Okay,” he says, because if he doesn't debrief Genji before they get in there, the green haired kid is gonna get eaten alive, “So, normally there's eight or so kids. All high school age. Jack and Reyes are gonna make 'em all introduce themselves, and probably make you introduce yourself too. Jack is blind, by the way. Reyes is a mess. They'll love ya. Don't ask Tracer to see her scars, because she will drop her shirt to show off her gun wound, don't ask Jamie whats in his canteen, and don't look Zarya in the eye. I swear she's part bear and she will kill if threatened.”

“Wow, sounds _magical_.”

“Your apparent disdain for life is gonna make you fit right on in.”

With that, the duo finishes their small trek down the hall, and turns into a spacious side room. There's a small circle of chairs, some occupied. All eyes flit up upon Genji and Jesse's arrival.

Jamie goes back to making a tower of cards on Tracer's perfectly still head, once he realizes it's not the adults.

“Hi, Jesse! I'd wave, but if I knock down the tower Junkie's making, he'll yell again” she says, with a bright smile to match.

“Shush, sheila,” Jamie admonishes, “Keep blabbing and the chin movement will disturb the cards! I almost got ten!”

Jesse lifts one hand and tips the brim of his hat.

“Howdy,” he greets, and he can hear Genji snort at his perfected cowboy aesthetic, “Everyone, this is Genji!”

Jamie darts his eyes up and takes in Genji's appearance. His eyes then flit to the only other person in the room who's in a wheelchair. A toothy grin spreads across his face.

“I have an idea-” he starts.

“May I remind you, Jamison,” Mercy chimes in, “Last time you proposed 'wheelchair jousting', it was against the will of one of the members, and he never came back to this group again.”

Jamie pouts, and turns back to his card towers.

“Damn group never lets me have fun,” he mutters under his breath.

“Oi! I'm letting you stack cards on my recently shaved head, how is that not fun?” Tracer chips in.

“Tracie, c'mon, shush!”

“Ugh, _fine_.”

“That's Jamie, we also call him Junkie, it depends on how dirty he is,” Jesse says, leaning down by Genji and pointing at various people in the room. “Tracer is the baldy – now don't glare at me Trace, I say it with love. Zarya's the one with pink hair and the biceps of a god, Mercy is the angelic filly over there, and Lúcio is the one wearing headphones, even though he's deaf, just so we know he's ignoring us on purpose.”  
“I can read lips with my peripheral vision, smartass,” Lúcio chimes in, not looking up from his phone. “Lemme say bye to Hana before the adults crash the party, _then_ I'll stop ignoring you.”

Genji takes in the small group. Jamie balancing cards on Tracer's head, Lúcio typing swiftly on his phone, Zarya and Mercy having a (quiet on Mercy's end, loud on Zarya's end) conversation, and, oh, someone else in the corner who apparently slipped Jesse's eye.

His eyes are focused down on the book in his lap, but, as if he could feel Genji's eyes on him, he glances up. Bright blue eyes meet amber ones.

The other guy in a wheelchair shoots Genji a soft smile, and to add to it, he flips up two fingers in a peace sign.

Genji tries to ignore the flips his heart decided to do, and tries to work up the nerve to say hello, when-

“Alrighty, everyone take your seats!”

Jamie lets out a groan as Tracer knocks off his tower of cards, Lúcio slips his phone in his pocket and slides his headphones off, and Mercy and Zarya turn their attention to the others.

The circle of chairs is just that, a circle of chairs. Jesse darts forwards and pulls two out - “Hey, here ya go Zen!” - and then wheels Genji to one side of the spot he just cleared up. Jesse takes the seat in front of him and flips it around, sitting in it backwards, arm resting on the backrest.

Genji glances to his left, and yeah, there's peace sign boy. Who happens to look cuter up close.

Genji's half glad his face is covered in butterfly bandages and other medical miscellany. Maybe it's covering the blush he's sure sprung up on his cheeks.

(He agreed to therapy. He didn't agree to seeing cute boys. And yet, here he is.)

Everyone in their seats, lined up and ready to go, and the vaguely threatening man in all black speaks up.

“Alright, you all know the drill,” he says, taking a seat of his own. “Any good moments this week?”

Jamie's arm flies into the air.

“I smacked a wasps' nest with my prosthetic leg!” he says, grinning wildly.

Lucio stares at him.

“Dude, that was not a _good_ moment,” he says.

“Was from my point of view!”

“Yeah, well you didn't get stung!”

“Boys,” Jack sighs, “Anyone else have any good moments this week?”

“I got one!” Tracer exclaims, “A guy at the mall was catcalling me, so I 'accidentally' ran over his feet with my oxygen tank.”

“Impressive,” Reyes states. “How about you, new kid? Any good moments pertaining to your disability this week? We go over this at the beginning of each session, start things out on a positive note.”

“Uh,” Genji says. He tries to think of anything positive that happened this week, and its a massive blank. The past few months as a whole were rather blank, losing the majority of your limbs wasn't exactly a gateway to happiness. “Uh, I rigged up my laptop so the controls are on the right, so I can play video games one handed?”

Genji feels the slightest bit nervous, unsure if he said the right thing.

But the girl with the oxygen tank bursts into a grin, the kid who also has a prosthetic arm looks impressed, and Jesse shoots Genji a small smile, and Genji thinks that maybe this can all work out.

“Nice,” the blind man states, “Important to remember that not every good thing you share has to be a massive victory, you can find good in small things. Reworking video game controls, fighting cat-callers-”

“Getting down wasp nests with a prosthetic!”

Jack sighs.

“Getting down wasp nests with a prosthetic,” he sighs. “Now, if no one else has anything else to share on that note, how about we do introductions? Name, age, reason you're here, we have new member today, so lets do our best to make him feel at home, yeah?”

“Jesse, you start, work around the circle, ending with new kid,” Reyes instructs.

“Jesse McCree, seventeen, missing left arm because of reasons,” Jesse says, leaning back slightly. He folds his arm and prosthetic over his chest, and although Genji really wants to know what 'reasons' are, he figures now's not the proper place to pry.

“Lena Oxton!” chimes the girl sitting to Jesse's right, “Although everyone calls me Tracer. I'm eighteen. About six months ago I was shot in the chest, which turned out to be a good thing, because when they did a ton of surgeries to get the bullet and all the shrapnel out, surprise, lungs full of tumors! Unresectable lung carcinoid tumors to be specific. They couldn't get the tumors out with surgery, so right now I'm going through chemo. Hence the oxygen tank and the bald head. Nice to meet you, new guy!”

Despite the heavy story she had just dropped, Tracer smiles brightly at Genji, accenting her last sentence with a small wave. She's nothing if not chipper, even when riddled with cancer.

Genji casts a quick glance around the room, finding no one perturbed by the cheery way she shared her tale. Fitting, he supposes. This is a group for coping with all of this, so of course some would be coping better than others, and isn't coping a good thing?

“I'm Jamie Fawkes,” the guy sitting next to Tracer chips in, taking Genji out of his thoughts. His voice is also chipper, though not as utterly cheery as Tracer's. “I'm seventeen. Lost my arm and my leg in an explosion when I was a tike, just got in America. Right now I'm in a foster home with this bloke!”

Jamie slings an arm around the shoulders of the guy sitting next to him, who rolls his eyes.

“Lúcio Correia dos Santos,” he says, “Sixteen, and yeah, Jamie is my foster brother. Been rooming with this jerk for a few years now, so no one puts up with his shit better than me, so if you need him off your back, newbie, lemme know.”

“I take offense to that,” Jamie replies, retreating his arm and pouting. “I'm a barrel of fun.”

“Wasp nest, I was _right there_ bro,” Lúcio replies. “Anyways. I'm deaf. I have a inner ear condition called Meniere's disease, and a year or so after my diagnosis I got into a soccer accident. One hit to the head, one concussion, all it took to knock the hearing right out me. Does have it's perks, I guess, at least if I wanna ignore Jamie I can just look away.”

“You're so mean,” Jamie pouts once more.

Lúcio looks away, before winking at the new guy.

Next in the circle are the two leaders of the group (the seeing eye dog sitting calmly between them), but introductions hop over them in favor of focusing on the kids first.

“I'm Angela Ziegler, but people call me Mercy,” the next girl says. She tucks a loose lock of her blonde wig behind her ear. “I'm seventeen years old. I've been battling leukemia since I was a child. The details are rather dismal, but I have hope. Some days that's all you need, just a bit of hope for things to get better.”

She offers up a warm smile in Genji's direction.

“Aleksandra Zaryanova, call me Zarya!” the next girl speaks up, her voice booming throughout the room. “I have battled off breast cancer, am currently in remission. Eighteen years old. Doctors are still keeping an eye on me in case anything comes back, and the chemo made my health bad, but I'm powering through!”

Genji begins to feel a little bit of nervousness at realizing how close he is to speaking up, and then he begins to feel a lot of nervousness at realizing how the cute boy next to him is the next one to speak up.

To Genji's surprise (and no one else's) the boy turns directly to him, offering out a hand for a shake.

“I'm Zenyatta Tekhartha, feel free to call me Zen,” he says, offering Genji a warm smile. After a moment of being caught off guard by Zen speaking directly to him, Genji gets the sense to bring his hand up to return the shake. “I'm sixteen, and paralyzed from the waist down. Looks like we're wheelchair buddies, right?”

A small laugh falls out of Genji's half open mouth, and he returns the bright smile Zen's giving him.

“Heh, yeah. I'm Genji, nice to meet you.”

 _“Gay,_ ” whispers Jesse, right over his shoulder.

Genji moves to swat Jesse away, and then remembers he's supposed to be addressing the whole group, not just cute boys with blue eyes.

“Uh, yeah, I'm Genji, Genji S-” He pauses for a split second. Maybe dropping that name wouldn't be a good idea. “Uh, I'm fifteen, and a few months ago I was in a car accident. Had to get a ton of surgeries done, lost both my legs, and my left forearm. Obviously. Jesse dragged me here.”

“I seem to remember, and I quote, ' _Take me to therapy, the most awesome cowboy and man that I know_ ', ” Jesse says.

Genji elbows him in the ribs.

“I didn't say that,” he says, “I called you 'cowboy'. And it was an insult.”

“Ain't nothing insulting about that,” Jesse replies, before reaching up a hand to tip his hat at him.

“Well, Genji, however the cowboy roped, or _lassoed_ , you into coming here, we're glad to have you. I'm Jack. I've been blind for almost two decades now. Me and Gabriel here run the group, and if you ever need anything feel free to talk to either of us one-on-one.”

“Chronic pain and rheumatoid arthritis for me,” Gabriel states. “So since you're new here, anything you want to share?”

Genji shifts a bit in his wheelchair, a tad bit uncomfortable with being put on the spot.

“Uh, I'm not exactly sure what,” Genji says, offering up a slight shrug, “I'm kinda new to all this.”

“How have you been feeling since your incident?” Jack asks, framing the question more directly.

Genji swallows thickly, entirely unsure of what to say.

Depressed, angry, hurt, in pain, there's a lot to say, but he just isn't sure how _to_ say it.

Shimada's aren't exactly known for their skills in opening up.

“W-well,” he stutters out, trying to figure something out. He frowns down at his lap, the bandages covering his skin, and his throat feels like it locks up entirely.

Jesse glances over at the younger boy, and decides it's time to swoop in and save him. Jack and Gabriel mean well, he knows they do, but Jesse also knows that Shimada's don't just bare their heart at the very first question.

“Y'know, Genji,” he speaks up, drawing the attention of everyone in the small circle, “When I lost my arm, I was awful mad. Mad at myself, at the doctors, at what happened. I don't think I ever felt as angry as I did than when I woke up without my arm.”

Jesse glances up, making pointed eye contact with others in the room.

“I'm sure everyone here can sympathize with that, yeah?”

Tracer catches on quickly, and nods eagerly.

“Yeah! When I first woke up after the bullet, I was _so_ mad at the whole incident. And then the doctors told me about the cancer, and hell, that was just insult to injury! I wasn't just mad though, I was sad, too. A whole calamity of emotions. But yeah, I know what it's like to be mad like that, Jess.”

Genji bites his lip, analyzes his feelings, and eventually nods.

“Y-yeah,” he says. “I guess I am kinda mad. At myself, mostly, though. I didn't even w-wear a seat belt. It seemed so important that _didn't_ at the time, out of stupid spite, and I don't even know if that would have changed anything, just. Yeah. Mad.”

“Being mad or angry is totally normal, even expected in situations like yours,” Jack says. “As long as you deal with it in ways that don't hurt yourself or others, it's okay to be angry.”

“Personally, I deal with my anger via blasting music,” Lúcio speaks up, continuing along the line of thought Jack presented. “Before I went deaf, music was my entire life. And digital music isn't quite something you can mix up without hearing it, so I don't think I'm bound to be the modern day Beethoven. But on days when I get really mad about it, I'll put on my old favorite pair of headphones, and blast my favorite songs. I can feel the vibrations and stuff, kind of my way of telling my deafness to screw off, because I'm gonna enjoy music anyway.”

“I like to set things on fire!” Jamie jumps in, his voice rather chipper. Before anyone can deter him from his pyromaniac tendencies, he continues. “When I get mad at my medical rubbish, I like to make copies of all my x-rays and papers and all that negative junk, and then I make a big bonfire with it all in the backyard!”

“I personally prefer to beat things up. Boxing is a brilliant past time,” Zarya chips in.

“It is important to mention that oftentimes anger doesn't just show up on it's own,” Gabriel adds, easily drawing the attention of the teenagers in the room to him. “It can be accompanied by sadness, shame, a ton of other things. So although lighting things on fire or beating up things is nice, don't neglect to handle the other emotions too, even if they tend not to be as fun to deal with.”

Conversation continues to wind on between the ten in the room. It mostly flows between the teenagers Jack and Gabriel occasionally speaking up to guide the conversation or add some advice.

Genji finds himself listening more than he shares, but by the end of the hour he's exhausted nonetheless, and feeling more than a little at ease in the group.

It won't always be fun, and it sure as hell won't always be easy, but Genji finds himself thinking that maybe support group isn't as bad as he originally thought.

The session comes to a close when Jamie and Tracer's phone ring, almost unanimously (or almost as if their rides were talking in the parking lot and called for their kids at the same time). Jamie informs Lúcio that their foster father is there, Mercy tells Tracer and Zarya that her mom's giving them a ride home today. Full of rushed goodbyes, the group swiftly dissipates.

Jesse stands, rolling his shoulders to work out the kinks that formed due to sitting in a metal chair for an hour.

“Ready to roll out?” he asks, turning to Genji. “Shit, probably could have phrased that better.”

“You can make it up to me via ice cream,” Genji returns. “Your kidnapping happened before dinner, and I'm _starving_.”

“McCree, got a moment?” Gabriel's voice cuts in easily, causing both boys to look over to him. He tilts his head in the direction of his office.

“You okay with waiting a minute, Genj?” Jesse asks. He pauses a moment before shuffling around in one of the pockets of his jeans, pulling out a few crumpled ones. “There's a vending machine down the hall, that should tide you over til ice cream.”

Genji takes the dollars, and grins up at him, no qualms about waiting.

“If there aren't any Snickers, I'm gonna kick your ass,” he says.

Jesse grins at him, messes up his hair, before moving over to follow Gabriel into his office.

Genji shifts in his wheelchair, and wheels out of the room and into the hall, which is wonderfully empty. The hospital doctors and nurses, and even the staff at the house, were all overly pitying and doting. Being honest, he's not sure if he got a breath of air since this entire mess started.

Operating wheelchairs with one arm isn't quite the easiest thing, but Genji's never been one for giving up. Talks with his family lead to the options of a motorized wheelchair in the future, and later prosthetics, but for now all he has to work with is the average wheelchair.

Soon falling into the swing of things, he makes it to the vending machine with little issue. He slips in a dollar into the slot, and gets ready to hit the button to get him his snickers, when-

_Dammit._

Despite how hard he tries to reach, the buttons for the vending machine are just out of reach.

Genji leans back in his chair in a huff, scowling up at the damned machine. He's half tempted to ram his wheelchair straight into the glass. He was promised a Snickers, and by god, he wants it.

“Despite what you think, you can't set objects on fire with your mind,” a voice chimes in. Genji turns his burning gaze off of the machine and glances over to see none other than Zen. Funny, he thought he had left, and he certainly hadn't heard him approach.

“Well, you never know when superpowers are gonna set in,” Genji replies, scrambling for the first thing his mind thinks of, even if it is a slightly nerdy pop culture reference. “If we're going by X-Men rules, powers come in under extreme emotional stress. Like now. With not getting a Snickers. You never know, I could be the next Cyclops.”

Zenyatta lets out a giggle, and Genji maybe feels the cold hard thud of _falling hard_ for him.

And maybe it's a tad bit dumb for his thoughts to be going so far when this is the first proper conversation he had with the guy, but a smile perks up at the corner of Genji's lips, and he's dying to make Zen laugh again.

Zenyatta moves closer, and he leans forward and grabs something leaning up against the side of the vending machine. When Genji gets a better look at it, he sees that it's one of those claw grabber things, with a handle at one end, the claw at the other end. Far more well made than if it was a kids toy.

“Back when this vending machine was put in, Mr. Gabriel raised hell about it. There wasn't braille on the buttons originally, and it's obviously not wheelchair acceptable. Plus there weren't snacks that would be fitting for those with low blood sugar, diabetes, Celiac disease, you probably haven't noticed yet but Mr. Gabriel does get pretty extreme when it comes to that kinda stuff. So he fixed all that he could, and got this. What do you want?”

Genji listens to Zen's voice (deeper than he thought a sixteen year old's could go) talk about vending machines and ableisim, and he decides that this boy could read off Taco Bell's entire menu in German and he'd still find it pleasing to his ears.

“Uh, the Snickers there. B4,” he says, once he remembers that conversations generally involve speaking on both ends.

Zen uses the blunt end of the claw to poke the appropriate buttons, and then offers the grabber to Genji as the candy bar spirals down.

“Wanna do the honors?” Zen asks, a warm smile playing on his lips once more.

Genji returns the smile, and takes the claw from him. He attempts to look suave while getting his chocolate bar, and winds up looking as suave as any awkward teenage boy using a claw grabber to get a chocolate bar from a vending machine can look. Which is not at all.

(Zen finds him cute, nonetheless.)

Eventually Genji gets his chocolate bar, and the claw is returned to his spots, and it's just the two of them in the hall, some kind of soft aura in the air.

“It'll all get easier,” Zen tells him, “Being in a wheelchair, I mean. First few months are always the roughest, and it's never _easy,_ but it does get a lot less hard.”

Genji nods.

“That's good to hear,” he says, “I... this is kinda my first 'outing' since my incident. I've only had a little practice moving about in this thing on my own, usually someones pushing me, so I still haven't got the hang of it yet.”

“I've been paralyzed for about three years now,” Zen returns.

He speaks softly, but as easy as anything, like paralysis and wheelchairs took the same amount of precedence as the weather. Which, it does, Genji figures. It's his life. And it's Genji's too. At some point things like cancer and paralysis and amputations shifts from life altering to simply _life_ .

“It takes a long time to get comfortable with things, and there are some things that never change, but it will get easier, Genji.”

Genji smiles softly.

“Thank you, Zen.”

Footsteps ring through the hall and Genji glances up, expecting to see Jesse coming back. Instead it's a man, and at a closer look, it's a man who quite resembles Zen. Same deep brown skin, same bright blue eyes. He walks right up at the two, and glances down at Zen.

“Ready to go, Zenyatta?” he asks.

“Yes,” Zen replies, before turning back to Genji. “Genji, this is my brother, Mondatta. Mondatta, this is my new friend, Genji.”

Genji bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from grinning too hard.

The accident, which had knocked him out of school and public in general, had made him lose more than just his limbs.

So the thought of having a friend again made his heart thump rather hard.

“Nice to meet you, sir,” Genji says, holding out his hand for a shake. “I'm Genji Shimada, I just started going to the support group here.”

Mondatta shakes his hand, and offers up a smile. Its not as warm as Zen's, but he tries.

“That's wonderful, I hope you find peace in the group. Zen certainly had his spirits uplifted since joining.” He pauses, retreating his hand, before a thought strikes him. “Shimada? The name sounds familiar, have I met your family before?”

“I doubt it,” Genji replies, with a light shrug. “My mother and father are currently conducting business in Europe, although they primarily live in Japan. Business takes them all over, they only visit me and my brother ever so often, usually when they do visit its a small affair with just the four of us. My brother is my current legal guardian, but neither of us are much for entertaining. Perhaps you've heard our name in a business sense?”

“That might be it,” Mondatta says, even though it's clear he already moved onto other thoughts entirely. “Your parents are in Europe? They, ah, didn't come back?”

“No, they didn't,” Genji says. He steels himself a bit, prepares to dish out some lies. “Their business is quite important, and they felt that my accident was something me and my brother could handle. I'm sure they'll make the time to come by soon, though.”

Which is a hell of a lot easier to say than the real reason they didn't come.

But Genji doesn't entertain those thoughts.

At all.

He has enough on his plate.

“I see,” Mondatta says. He glances over to his little brother. “Well, if you do need anything, me and Zenyatta would be happy to help.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Zen speaks up. Genji's eyes are drawn back to him, and finds Zen finishing scribbling something out on a small slip of paper. “Here's my cell number, you can call or text me anytime.”

Before Genji gets the sense to set down his chocolate bar and take the slip of paper, Zen acts. He rolls up the paper into a small, cigarette like tube.

He leans forward, brushing aside some of Genji's green hair, and tucks the slip of paper behind Genji's ear.

He smiles at him warmly before retreating his hand.

“It was wonderful meeting you, Genji,” Zen says, “I'll see you at next week's session?”

Genji nods, trying to ignore the wave of crimson that he's sure is crossing his cheeks.

“Y-yeah,” he stammers out, “I'll be here. B-bye!”

With that, Zen and Mondatta take their leave. The two brothers move out of the community center, and Genji stays by the vending machine, watching them go.

-

When Gabriel and Jesse arrive in Gabriel's office, Gabriel starts speaking in Spanish, and that's how Jesse knows he means business.

“We need to talk about how things are going to play out with you now having a friend in the group,” Gabriel says, his Californian accent becoming more pronounced when he slips into the language he's more comfortable in.

Jesse raises an eyebrow.

“I thought you and Jack didn't have a problem with Genji joining?” he returns, easy as anything. He always did favor Spanish more than English.

“No, we don't,” Gabriel is quick to say, “I'm just wondering how this is going to work with you. Namely, with you dealing with how you lost your arm.”

“Oh,” Jesse says. He tenses up slightly as that topic is risen. “I know I worked up to telling you, but again, that's not something anyone else in the group needs know. Nothin' good will come from sharing that.”

Gabriel nods.

“I didn't expect you to change your mind about that. I just wanted to be clear on what Genji knows about you, and what he doesn't.”

“He doesn't know about how I lost my arm. Or the money struggles, or that job, or any of it, and I'd prefer to keep it that way. God, if Hanzo finds out about that, he'd _kill_ me.”

“Hanzo?” Gabriel asks, and he maybe smirks a little at the slight flash of panic that crosses Jesse's face.

“Uh, he's just a boy.”

“A boy you like, by the sounds if it,” Gabriel returns easily.

“How did you get that from five words?” Jesse asks, too confused to deny anything.

“'A boy' screams crush, Jess. Next time use guy, dude, friend . I'm guessing Hanzo and Genji are friends?”

“Brothers,” Jesse replies, “And it's not a crush. But I've known Hanzo for years, and Genji is practically my little brother. Their parents are absent shits, and Hanzo is emotionally constipated, so I knew with the accident and all Genji needed something, and that's why I brought him here.”

“It's funny how you both still think I can't understand Spanish,” Jack says, announcing his arrival into the room. Neither Gabriel or Jesse are worried about him overhearing anything, Jack's far too monolingual to know any of the intricacies of the conversation.

“You only know enough Spanish to sound only marginally like an idiot when you order Mexican food,” Gabriel returns, speaking in English.

Jack shrugs, and crosses the room to snatch up Gabriel's stapler. He holds it up, and turns back to leave.

“And with this, I take my leave,” he says. “Adios, amigos.”

Gabriel sighs.

“Last time you used a stapler you wound up stapling important documents to your jacket,” he calls after Jack.

“Well this is this time, not last time!” Jack returns, already back in his office. Gabriel maybe sighs again.

He turns back to Jesse, slipping back into Spanish.

“Neither me nor Jack have any current qualms about you bringing Genji. I just wanted to make sure I didn't say anything that he needs to hear from you, first. And I also wanted to make sure that him being here won't make you lock up, because that will just be detrimental to both of you.”

Jesse pauses for a moment, chewing his bottom lip. He half wishes he had one of his cigarettes, but he knows that Reyes will toss his pack into the trash and give him a stern rant on lung cancer if he tries to light up in the community center.

“I already took a huge step by inviting Genji here,” Jesse says, at length, “I think... I think this will be good for me. Opening up more, not just to people I only see here, but people I see outside therapy too.”

Gabriel nods.

“Now, don't you and your friend have ice cream to get?”

Jesse shoots a grin at Gabriel, and moseys on over to the door. He pauses, and glances back.

“How I lost my arm, that whole mess, that's still between us,” he says. “No one else needs know.”

With that, he leaves. He made Genji wait long enough, and now isn't the time to be mourning stupid decisions, it's time for ice cream.

He finds Genji soon enough, the green haired boy still sitting by the vending machine, eyes locked on the door a couple yards away.

“Hope I didn't keep ya too long,” Jesse says. “Now, rocky road is calling my name.”

Genji glances up.

“Nah, you weren't too long,” he replies. “Zen was still here. We talked a bit.”

“Look at you, making friends!” Jesse says with a bright smile to match, moving behind Genji's wheelchair to push him in the direction of the exit. “See, I told ya this place would be good for you.”

“Jesse?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm gay.”

“Same.”

“I'm coming back next week. Half for therapy. Half for cute boy.”

“Well, whatever gets you in the door, I guess. Dibs on being best man at your wedding. I'll fight Hanzo for it.”

“Hanzo could kill you with his hands behind his back.”

“Well, aren't you just a ray of sunshine. Your three scoops have now been reduced to two.”

“Can I still get sprinkles?”

“Now, what kind of a monster would I be if I didn't get us sprinkles?”

There's a slight lull.

“Thanks, Jesse.”

(They both know that Genji is speaking about much more than boys and sprinkles.)

(They both know it's something to do with limbs and bandages and coming to terms with a new form of life.)

(They both _know.)_

“Anytime, Genji, anytime.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoo boi this turned out to be a monster chapter. hope you enjoyed, let me know what you think!~


	3. Espionage. Or, In Which Junkrat Is Junkrat, And Lucio Is Lucio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie steals a file, Lucio gets dragged into it, and foster kid shenanigans happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM BACK

_****“.........”_

_Lúcio flips through the TV channels, trying to find something decent to watch._

_“..................”_

_Reba, MTV, Pawn Kings, fuck it, Seinfeld it is then_ , he thinks, slumping back into the worn gray sofa.

“.............”

After a few seconds, Lúcio feels a sharp poke to his arm. He turns his head, and (of course) there's Jamie, poking him repeatedly in the arm.

Lúcio's gaze settles on his lips, reading what he can't hear.

“I've been yellin' at ya for five minutes,” Jamie admonishes, now that he has Lúcio's attention.

“Dude,” Lúcio replies, shifting to face Jamie better, “Deaf, remember?”

“Riiiiiiiiiiight,” Jamie says, dragging the word out. Lúcio almost wants to sigh. For being a pretty crafty dude, Jamie's mind sure did blank out on the weirdest things. “Anyways, I need your help!”

Jamie offers up what he hopes is an endearing grin, but it winds up a bit toothy, and a bit shifty. He tries, though, god does he try.

“With what?” Lúcio asks, caution firmly in place.

(Last time he 'helped' Jamie, they both lost their eyebrows and TV privileges until Jamie and him saved up enough cash to buy the TV that they had 'accidentally' blown up. Sombra was not happy at her lack of soap operas.)

“I need you to stand watch for me,” Jamie says, “It won't take long, I'll be in and out, just gotta yell if Reinhardt drops in! It'll be fiiiiine.”

“Stand watch while you do what?”

“Gotta steal a file from his office. I'ma have to pick the lock on his file cabinet, if it ain't out in the open, and-”

Lúcio decides to ignore him. Because there's no way in hell that he's risking his eyebrows or his TV for the wreck beside him again.

He turns his head back to the TV, pointedly ignoring Jamie's lips. What he can't read, he can't hear, and Reinhardt can't fuss at him for.

A moment later Jamie realizes he's being ignored, so he begins a flurry of poking Lúcio's arm.

_ Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap- _

“I don't want to get in trouble!” Lúcio snaps, turning his head back, “Stealing a file is a big thing, dude!”

“I'll help ya video chat with Hana if you help me!”

Now  that catches Lúcio's attention.

Jamie fights off a devilish grin.

One thing he could always count on, Lúcio adored Hana. Given that Hana's hands were in far too much pain to type, and her being mute along with Lúcio being deaf, it meant that the pair couldn't talk as much as they would like. The internet friend duo made it work, though, they always did.

And sometimes they did it via helping foster siblings steal files.

Lúcio raises an eyebrow skeptically.

“Listen, just stand watch, and I'll nab the file, then I'll bring it back. And later tonight you can video chat your girlfriend-”

“She's not my girlfriend,” Lúcio interjects, a fact he makes quite clear quite often.

“Whatever you say, mate. Just help me, and I'll help you, yeah?”

Lúcio almost feels like he's making a deal with the devil.

_ Hana, I hope you appreciate the things I do for you _ _ ,  _ he thinks.

“I'll help,” Lúcio states, “Just don't get me in trouble.”

Jamie flies to his feet, a flurry of gawky limbs and messy hair and an excited grin. He grabs Lúcio's arm, tugs him to his feet, and maybe jumps a bit in excitement.

“Trouble's just part of the fun, Luci! Now, let's go! Reinhardt is cooking dinner, so he'll be in the kitchen, ugh, meatloaf. Sombra is dismantling the car, so if worse comes to worst we can just tell Rein what she's doing so he'll be distracted with her while we do this.”

Lúcio pries Jamie's hand off his arm (the scrawny kid is stronger than he looks), and nods. 

“Let's just get this rolling, okay?”

Jamie doesn't hesitate, he begins shuffling down the hall as inconspicuously as he can.

Reinhardt's home isn't a mansion by any means, it's middle class suburbia at best. However, there is plenty of space, because when you're a foster father for four kids, you sure as hell need space.

Jamie was the first one Rein took in, then Lúcio, and then Sombra. 

And then Mako.

Who Jamie is _quite_ interested in.

Intentionally, there's a theme with Reinhardt's motley crew: they're all the kids no one else wants.

Jamie feels like he's obvious. He's burn marks and missing limbs and slightly less mental stability than is the norm. He'd see parents come, look around, turn up their noses at him, and leave with a kid who had all their limbs and didn't have panic disorders. 

Lúcio is more subtle. Plenty of people adored him, plenty of potential adopters would coo over his bright eyes and dazzling smiles, only to drop him the second they found that he was disabled. Being deaf branded him as someone who would take more work raising than anyone was looking for, and so he was passed over quite often. The depression is just the cherry on top.

Sombra, like Jamie, is quite obvious in the sense that no one wants her. Which is the only thing obvious about her. Items vanish around her, adopters' necklaces, small coins, phones even. Her words do nothing to soothe anyone, because in one breath she's talking about how her previous foster home had two pools and a horse, and in the next she's saying how she had never been taken in before and lived in a box for four years. Kleptomania, compulsive lying, all tied up in a neat bow of apathy.

Reinhardt always takes in the kids that no one wants.

And Mako is new.

And Jamie is determined to find out what the new kid's deal is.

Hyper-fixation on people always wound up biting him in the ass before, but this time,  _ this time _ , it's gonna be different. Or so Jamie tells himself.

“Why are we even doing this?” Lúcio asks, as the two make their way through the halls of the house. He feels a bit like a kid playing secret agents, emphasized by Jamie humming the Mission Impossible theme.

(Which Jamie had told him, because he was not about to let his humor be lost through the bounds of Lúcio not being able to hear humming.)

“Because I wanna know more about the new guy,” Jamie replies, making sure to turn his head so Lúcio can read his lips. 

He suddenly holds up a hand, and both him and Lúcio freeze.

A moment later Sombra comes walking down the hallway. She glances over at the two silent teen boys, who are pressed against the wall, looking like deer in headlights.

(Deer who hum the Mission Impossible theme.)

(But Jamie only knows the first few bars, so he repeats them over and over and over, much to Lúcio and Sombra's chagrin.)

Sombra rolls her eyes and continues walking.

“Probablemente pienses que esto es un insulto, imbéciles,” she mutters under her breath, before continuing on her way.

“Did she just insult us?” Jamie asks, narrowing his eyes at Sombra's retreating form.

“Was she holding my old hockey trophy?” Lúcio asks, “What is she doing with it?”

“She's a kleptomaniac,” Jamie replies, “She never does anything with whatever she steals. Not important now. Files are important.”

He grabs Lúcio's arm before Lúcio can make a run for the trophy, and the two resume the trek down the hall.

Reinhardt's house isn't big, just big enough to house him and his wayward sons (plus daughter). 

Lúcio and Jamie have been sharing a room since they were kids, because although neither of them would admit it, as newly taken in kids they were scared of sleeping alone. Despite the two being far into teenager-hood now, they stick together out of habit.

Sombra has her own room, which no one is allowed to enter under pain of death. (Or rather, her smacking you. She has her nails acrylic and filed into sharp points, so the boys avidly avoid catching those hands.)

Mako has his own room, as the newest one in the home, he gets a little bit of extra treatment from Reinhardt. None of the others mind, though, because they all went through the same thing. His room is sparse and unassuming, he had only moved in two weeks prior. No decorating had been done, the only personal item in the room is his backpack of clothes stashed under his bed, and there are no secrets to be found. (Jamie would know, he checked. Quite thoroughly. Snooping is a skill that goes hand in hand with stealing files).

Soon enough the mismatched duo makes it to the end of the hall, Reinhardt's office door cracked open and welcoming.

Jamie steps in quietly, Lúcio following. 

“Stay by the door, I'll get the file. If anyone comes, distract 'em,” Jamie instructs.

“Distract them how?”

“Fire tends to work for me.”

“No.”

“Shush.”

“ _You_ shush.”

Jamie merely rolls his eyes, and sets to work. He crosses the office quickly, pulling out a few odds and ends out of his pocket as he does so. He doesn't have 'official' lock picking tools per se, but the things he crafted under instruction from shady internet websites should work.

Jamie picks the lock as only Jamie does, with Lúcio occasionally peeking out the cracked door.

“Y'know, Hana's foster parents might be moving to Canada,” Lúcio says. “Something about a sick family member or something.”

“That sucks,” Jamie replies, half distracted with the lock in front of him, “She going back in the system?”

“I've actually been trying to work things out with Reinhardt and her foster fam, see if she could be moved here.”

“Funky joints and no voice, that sounds like Reinhardt's type of thing. What does he think?” Jamie says, before the lock pops open. “Got it!”

“He's optimistic but cautious, like he is about everything,” Lúcio replies, “Read what you wanna read and lets get out.”

“Nah, lets head back to our room, less of a chance being caught there. I'll slip it back when everyone's distracted with dinner.”

Before Lúcio can argue, Jamie hobbles past him. Lúcio belatedly realizes Jamie's not wearing his  _ actual _ prosthetic leg, just a conglomeration of parts he had whipped up in the garage. Reinhardt encouraged every one of his kids odd hobbies, even if it meant Jamie's leg was half po-go stick parts and that the neighbors wifi was now Sombra's wifi. 

“Did you change your leg?” Lúcio asks, as he follows Jamie to their shared bedroom. 

“Added a spring. Working on shock absorption, something that makes running easier, y'know? I'm gonna add some grips on the bottom soon too, and maybe paint it. Flames going up the side or somethin' cool like that.”

Soon enough the mismatched pair made it to their bedroom. Lucio shuts the door behind them, and Jamie leaps onto his bed like a writer jumps to make boring metaphors like these sound better.

Lucio takes a seat at the foot of Jamie's bed, biting his lip. He sighs, fondly.

“I swear to god, if Hana winds up moving in here, I'm gonna bust a nut.”

Jamie locks eyes with him, and tries to choke back a laugh. The second Lucio's face slips into hard resentment, all of Jamie's composure flies out the window.

Jamie descends into a burst of sharp laughter, eventually clutching his sides from it all. He's dying, and Lucio lets out another sigh, this one much more tired.

“That's a sex thing, isn't it,” he says, while Jamie wipes tears from his eyes, “Sombra told me it meant being happy. Something to do with nutcrackers.”

“Sombra's a compulsive liar,” Jamie replies. An impish smirk crosses his features, “Besides, I mean, if Hana does move in you sure as hell are gonna bu-”

Lucio cuts him off with a pillow to the face. 

Jamie laughs anyway.

“Read your file before Reinhardt comes gets us for supper,” Lucio says.

Jamie, still giggling, flips open the file. It feels a little bit like Christmas morning, but with a sprinkling of deviancy.

_ Mako Rutledge.  _

_ Seventeen.  _

_ Male.  _

_ Mental illnesses: PTSD, selective mutisim, abandonment issues. _

A small frown tugs at Jamie's lips as he reads the rest of the file. All that Mako had been through, and all the things he was dealing with now.

Jamie has thick skin. He's always had.

One can't go into an explosion and come out motherless without changing.

He's been through foster system loops, he's been through hospital mayhem, he's been through life as a whole. He's heard Lucio's story, and Sombra's, and Reinhardt's.

So when he hears Mako's, it doesn't surprise him. As much as he hates to say it, being through so much makes all the horrible things in life seem normal to Jamie. Mako's tale could be his, any of the others, anyone's.

Normalcy can still burn. Missing limbs still ache and year long mental illnesses still flame. 

So even though Mako's story is far from being a unique one, even though Jamie knew more little kids coated in bruises and broken bones in the system than he could count, it still affects him.

His fingers curl into fists and dig bruises into his palms, his eyes narrow in angry depression, and a small little sigh comes out of his nose at the recognition of one more broken soul in the world.

People like Jamie, like Lucio or Sombra or  Mako being abused is  _ normal _ in Jamie's life.

That doesn't mean it doesn't break his heart whenever he hears of it.

“You okay, man?” Lucio asks, catching the shift in Jamie's demeanor. He's tempted to read the file himself, but the clouded look in Jamie's eye almost seems like a warning.

Jamie snaps the file shut, and shrugs.

“He's been through the same stuff we've been through. My second and third home, your fifth?”

Recognition clicks in Lucio's eyes.

“Oh,” he says, because there isn't much else he can think to say. He hates that it doesn't surprise him.

“Except it wasn't foster parents, it was his real parents. It's why he's in the system now,” Jamie says. His fingers tap on his knee, him biting his lip as he thinks. “It's almost hard to wrap my head around, y'know? I know parents do shitty stuff but I'm used to seeing foster parents as bad, 'cept for Rein, and birth parents as somethin' else.”

“I guess we just got lucky,” Lucio says, voice dipping lower as memories of his parents float up. “My mom and dad were good people. Your mom was a good person. And sometimes people like Sombra or Mako don't get that, and it sucks.”

“You'd think that good parents would be a right, not a privilege.”

“I wish it was like that.”

Jamie opens the file once more, and looks at the photo of Mako pinned to the inside.

“I don't understand bringing a life into this world just to beat them up. I was a smartass and maybe I deserved what my foster parents gave me but you'd think with birth parents it'd be-”

“You know that's not how it works, Jamie,” Lucio interrupts, “Smartass or not, foster parents or not, no one deserves being hurt.”

Jamie shrugs.

Because it's a bit hard to feel like you don't deserve abuse when for years of your life you were told otherwise.

Lucio opens his mouth, sage words on his lips, when there's a soft knock at the door.

Jamie reacts quickly, he nabs the file and slips it under his pillow, the second Reinhardt opens the door. He has a wooden spoon in one hand, a rather fancy gingham apron on, and his ever-present smile on his lips.

“Dinner's ready, boys!” Reinhardt says cheerily, voice booming as always. His eyes narrow a moment later, sensing the heavy feeling in the room. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, we're fine,” Lucio says, turning so Rein can read his lips. “We were just talking about therapy yesterday.”

“Oh,” Reinhardt replies, “If either of you need anything, let me know, okay?”

“Thanks, Rein,” Lucio says. He hops off the bed and makes to stand. “You coming Jamie?”

“Actually, I'm not that hungry,” Jamie replies. He's almost glad both Lucio and Rein are deaf, so they can't hear the strain in his voice. “Got a lot on my mind, therapy and all that, y'know?”

Both Lucio and Reinhardt nod.

“I'll fix a plate for you and put it in the fridge in case you get hungry later,” Reinhardt says, “Take all the time you need, Jamison.”

“Cheers,” Jamie says, forcing a small smile on his lips.

Eventually both Rein and Lucio go, leaving Jamie alone in his room.

He drags his good hand over his face, letting out a sigh. None of that was lies, he isn't hungry and he does have things on his mind and therapy is bothering him. But other things happen to be bothering him too.

After a moment of quiet, Jamie rises to his feet and picks up the file. He'll return it, then go back to his room to tinker with his prosthetics or the like. Metal and wires are just what he needs.

He hobbles his way down the hall, and the office is in sight, and-

Jamie rams into a soft surface and finds himself sprawled out on the ground a moment later. The file scattered papers all over the floor, and without a second thought Jamie manages to nab them all and shuffle them into the right order, slipping them into the file.

A hand blocks his vision, and a moment later Jamie realizes that Mako's merely extending his hand to help him to his feet.

Jamie smiles, and takes his hand.

“Cheers mate,” he says, as he bounds to his feet.

Jamie's a bit tall for his age, but Mako's something else entirely. Jamie has to tilt his head back a little to get a good look at his face, but he finds he doesn't really mind. White hair pulled back in a pony tail, chipped nail polish on his fingers, one eyebrow raised as he looks in the direction of the file-

Jamie panics for maybe a second at the most, before springing into action. He grabs Mako's hand once more and practically flies to the office. 

(Mako gives in to the wiry bouncy kid covered in prosthetics, because if he didn't, there was no way Jamie could muster the strength to tug Mako.)

Jamie lets go of his hand and slides the file back into it's proper place, and spins back around to face Mako.

Mako raises one eyebrow, and folds his arms over his chest, waiting for an explanation.

“I was just curious!” Jamie says, wondering how a selective mute could be so expressive. “I didn't wanna intrude on your privacy or anything but wow curiosity is hard to battle off and-”  
He keeps rambling. And keeps on rambling.

(And if he  _ knew _ Mako, he might of caught the small smile Mako was fighting off. He doesn't see it though, not yet.)

Jamie runs a hand through his wild hair.

“Look, please don't tell Rein? Like he won't get mad or angry or anything, no worries about that, he just gets  disappointed and get's this one look on his face and so yeah. Are you gonna tell?”

Mako waits a moment. 

Mako lifts a finger to point to his mouth, and waits for it to click with Jamie.

“Right, rightrightright,” Jamie says, “Selective mutisim. But that doesn't apply to notepads or sign language or that kinda stuff, or does it?”

Mako leans forward and takes up a notepad and pen from Rein's desk, and scribbles off a quick note. He passes it over to Jamie.

_ It's fine. Won't tell. Probably gonna steal your file later. Retaliation. _

Jamie glances up from the note, looking over to Mako.

A grin forms on his lips.

_ This is the beginning of somethin' great _ _ ,  _ he thinks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three things:
> 
> One: I'm back! Chapters might not be coming out as often as the first two did, though. Sparks note version is that I went through a lot of rough shit, needed time to cope, and had to work my way back to writing. It's rare I lose my passion for creativity, but y'know how depression can be. But I'm working on writing again, so here I am! 
> 
> Two: Sombra said "You probably think this is an insult, imbicles." I don't speak Spanish, so if the translation is wrong, blame google translate, not me.
> 
> Three: this is the apron that Rein was wearing https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/02/77/77/02777743bfc9ec73b27314127977becf.jpg


	4. Roaring.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here, in Nevada, when it rains it roars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i'm a tease

The rain sounds differently here.

He figures it has something to do with the style of the buildings themselves.

In Japan, at the Shimada estate, rain would splash onto the tile rooftops in rough patterns, creating small rivers as they slid off of the angled roofs. It was a soft tapping, low and constant.

Here, in Nevada, when it rains it roars. Hot droplets like bullets fall in a fury, thunder cracks, lightning occasionally lights up the scene sprawled out before him. His balcony sure has a hell of a view.

Any sane person would go inside. It's three in the morning, it's storming, his clothes are soaking wet. Water soaks into his hair, dripping down into his eyes, across uneven teenage stubble and an over-sized hoodie that isn't even his own. 

He's standing rigid on the edge of his balcony, fingers clasped about the railing in a white knuckled grip.

Lightning strikes high places.

His room, the balcony, is on the top floor.

And maybe a lightning strike is what he wishes for. 

A quick solution to an eternal problem.

He lets out a sigh, eyes drifting down from the horizon to his hands. Red gashes have faded into brown scars, deep but nothing lasting. His nails grew back from where they were clawed down to nubs, his veins aren't coursing with adrenaline, and self inflicted scars are hidden under his red western-themed hoodie. 

If only other things healed as fast.

The maids took his cigarettes, and they wouldn't light in the storm anyway. All his knives were buried in the yard under a bed of flowers. 

Maybe that's why he's standing out there, he can't hurt himself with knives or smoke, so he hopes to catch his death of a cold.

He's half hoping Genji will run out onto the balcony and drag him inside, Jesse waiting in his room to drape a towel over his shoulders, popcorn in the microwave and a b-movie on the TV. Hell, at this point he'd even settle for his father arriving and snapping at him to get inside, his mother pinching his ear as she scolds the life out of him for standing in the rain.

It's not going to happen though, none of it. He knows. He doesn't expect different.

And he doesn't deserve different, he believes that down to the deepest parts of his soul.

Hanzo stands on his balcony, in the rain, for the rest of the night.

_ I don't deserve anything better. _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: does it even storm in a nevada desert why did i even set it here  
> also me: do it for the Aesthetic who cares if its logical
> 
> ANYWAYS HI YES IM HERE WITH A SHORT AF CHAPTER SORRY LIFE STUFF HAS BEEN HAPPENING BUT I'VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT THIS AU A LOT SO I WANNA WRITE MORE  
> to sate you until i get the time to finish the chapter, here's an inkling of what I have planned: jail, lesbians, lesbians in jail. service dogs and service not-dogs, sleepovers, Old People Angst, and a whole lotta tea.  
> prepare yourself B)


	5. Jail's A Great Place To Meet Cute Girls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Brigitte sighs, Tracer flirts, and good times in jail are had all around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: i don't advocate going to jail to meet cute lesbians. probably won't end as well as it does in the fic

Tracer knows how this is gonna play out.

Chief Torb's gonna let her off with a warning, she'll take the 7pm bus home, and Winston won't be  mad , just  _disappointed_. They'll have ramen for dinner, watch a few episodes of House, and by tomorrow everything will be right as rain once more.

That doesn't mean jail is any less nerve wracking. 

“C'mon, B,” Tracer coos, leaning against the bars of the tiny cell she's in. “We know Torb isn't gonna charge me with anything, can't I head home now?”

Brigitte looks up from the trashy romance novel in her hands, and shakes her head.

“I'm not losing my job over you,” she replies, but her tone is light and friendly. “Chief will be back in a bit, then we'll see about getting you out.”

Tracer lets out a huff, pushing off from the bars to pace about the cell. It's not the first time she's been in the police station cell, and it won't be the last. There's no one else in it, leaving her ample room to pace, her oxygen tank tugged after her.

“I don't see what's so wrong with spray paint anyway,” Tracer says.

“It's vandalism. Besides, isn't that stuff bad for your lungs?”

“I wore a mask and it's not like my lungs can be more shit than they already are. Besides, that graffiti needed covering. Got tired of looking at those slurs every day.”

“Normal people tend to just file a complaint and let the city deal with it,” Brigitte says, turning back down to her book.

“Consider me a vigilante then.”

“Alrighty, Batman.”

Tracer opens her mouth to claim she's Wonder Woman, not Batman, when the front door of the police station swings open. Torbjörn walks in, and to both Tracer and Brigitte's surprise, there's two people with him.

The lanky girl in a rather blue hoodie has a look that can kill, and the redhead is handcuffed and glaring.

“Into the cell 'til we sort it out,” Torb says, gesturing his hands for emphasis.

Soon enough Tracer has two cellmates, neither of which look happy about it. Redhead is unhandcuffed now, and Blue Hoodie has claimed one of the benches along the wall.

“Chief!” Tracer says, “Look, can we-”

“Give me a few minutes,” Torb says, “I'll get you out in a bit.”

“But-”

Before she can even finish, the short police chief shuffles off, to fill in Brigitte and do whatever short police chiefs do. 

Tracer lets out a huff, oxygen tubes protesting slightly, and pushes off from the bars of the cell to sit down. As she does so, however, tugging her oxygen tank trips the redhead. She stumbles slightly, and shoots a glare over at Tracer.

“What's your problem- oh shit, you okay?”

Tracer, with stress of school and cancer and therapy and jail, is half a second away from snapping a “Just dying, need these tubes to live and all that, otherwise right as rain!”.

But she doesn't.

Instead she gets caught up in red hair and hazel eyes. Slight pout of concern, freckled face. 

And, oh shit, Tracer remembers how gay she is.

Behind the redhead is a lithe girl in a baggy blue sweater. A slick black ponytail, pale skin, frosty eyes.

_ Oh shit,  _ Tracer thinks,  _I'm **super** gay_ .

Her mind racing, she shoves sapphic thoughts to the side and lets a smile slip onto her lips.

“Doin' just fine, aside from, y'know, jail,” she answers. “Any chance you're in here for murder? Because if you'd be willing to off me that'd be far more fun than waiting around for the chief to come back.”

And Tracer kinda wants to facepalm. Morbid humor isn't even her thing. It just kinda slipped out.

Blue Hoodie barely conceals a twitch of a smile, though. 

(Tracer counts that as a victory.)

“Shoplifting,” the redhead answers, “Not as glamorous as murder.”

“Murders a tad overrated anyway,” Tracer replies. “Besides, never got the chance to spend time in here actually with people. Used to being here on my own.”

Redhead glances back at Blue Hoodie, who's remaining silent.

“You frequent this place too?” she asks. Blue Hoodie raises one delicate eyebrow, before shaking her head. “Alrighty then. Just one delinquent in our midst.”

“Ah yes, because it's so easy to be a delinquent when you're toting around an oxygen tank and on chemo,” Tracer deadpans.

“I'm just teasing you,” Redhead replies. She takes a moment to look Tracer up and down, before a lopsided smile appears on her red lips. “I like you. Name's Emily.”

Tracer returns her smile.

“Call me Tracer,” she says. 

“And you?” Emily asks, hazel eyes flitting to the girl swathed in blue hoodie. 

“Amélie,” she answers, after a beat. Her voice is low and hesitant, a bit different from Emily's brass and chipper tone.

(Tracer thinks both voices sound dizzying.)

“Well, maybe jail isn't _all_ bad, meeting you both seems quite worth it,” Tracer says, flashing her signature grin once more.

Brigitte, who's sitting behind her desk once more, rolls her eyes.

“No making out,” she says, as she tries to find her novel amid the mess of papers on her desk.

“Shouldn't have stuck me in here with two cute girls, then,” Emily rebuts.

(Brigitte sighs.)

(Because she knows Tracer, she knows Emily, she doesn't know Am _é_ lie, but she _does_ know the flirting will only get more blatant from here on out.)

(Because she also knows what it's like to be a hormone filled teenage lesbian, and she merely thanks biology that no one's getting pregnant on her watch. Most likely. Dependent on how effective estrogen shots are and if Emily has condoms. Bio aside, hopefully no pregnancies will ensue, because Brigitte would like to keep her job, thank you very much.)

(Although, given that her boss is Torb and Torb is her dad and Torb and her mother are the rulers of 'oh shit, looks like we're having another one', she doubts it'd get her fired. After the last four of her siblings being 'surprise babies', Brigitte reckons she'll never get shit about accidental pregnancies (her own or otherwise) from her parents.)

Before Brigitte can think about printing out a “No Make Out Sessions In The Cell” sign, Torb walks back in. Brigitte knows fully well he didn't have any business to attend to in his office besides a shot of cheap alcohol he keeps in his locked drawer, specifically for situations where he's fed up with teenage delinquents.

“I'm going to need your parents phone numbers,” he sighs, nabbing a paper and pen off Brigitte's desk. “Who wants community service?”

“I plead the fifth,” Emily says.

“Not applicable,” Brigitte sighs. (She sighs often.)

Tracer looks over at Chief Torb, and tries to put on her best puppy-dog eyes.

“Look, Chief, remember that one time I got you those eggs in that tornado and you said you owed me one? Lemme swing that favor,” she says. Never has someone puppy-dog-eyed quite so hard, the thought of impressing two cute girls is a powerful motivator.

“You swung that favor seven times already,” Torb replies. He sighs (where Brigitte got it from, presumably), and then a thought strikes him. “Wait, Tracer, you're one of Jack's kids right?”

“Yup,” Tracer answers, easy as anything, “He's my dad.”

The Chief's eyebrows furrow in confusion for a moment.

“I don't remember him getting pregnant,” he says, “You'd think I'd remember that. Would have at least got him a gift card or something.”

“Not her actual dad, Dad,” Brigitte supplies. She had found her novel, and licked her thumb to turn the page, not bothering to glance up. “She means figuratively, not literally. Or kinky.”

“Kinky?” Torb asks.

(Brigitte regrets everything.)

“Have you ever heard the term 'Daddy'?” Emily says, far, _far_ too gleefully. Tracer tries to hold back a snort of laughter, and a smile might have played on _Amélie's_ lips for just a second.

Brigitte looks up from her book.

“Please don't spoil my father's innocence.” She pauses, before wrinkling her nose. “Nine kids. Doubt there's any innocence left to spoil. Carry on.”

Torb mutters something in Swedish, probably to the effect of “Goddamn millennials and their newfangled kinks.”

“Anyways,” Tracer says, “He's not really my dad. But if I ever stopped calling him that, he'd probably cry. I go to the support group he runs with Gabe.”

Brigitte rolls her eyes. “Of course they're doing it together. Still wanna make a bet on when they're gonna hook up.”

Tracer chuckles.

“These two are so deprived, I doubt they'll be confessing any time soon. I'd take that bet.”

“I once shared an apartment with them,” Torb says, “I know too much to involve myself in any kind of bet.”

Before anyone can say anything about the possibility of Jack and Gabe fucking, Torb moves around the small room to unlock the cell. He hands the sticky note and pen to Am _é_ lie, the only one whose number he doesn't have on file (since Emily and Tracer happen to be 'frequent fliers').

“I'll talk to Jack,” Torb says, “Since _you two_ seem to be insistent on mildly breaking the law, and you seem to have fell into them, straightening you up with some group therapy might be just what you need.”

“It's impossible to 'straighten' me, sir,” Emily replies, stepping out the cell. “Gay as hell.”

“I don't even know these two,” Am _é_ lie states. She passes him the pen and note with her number.

“Well, now you do. Hope ya like therapy.”

“Uh, I'm not sure if that'll work,” Tracer chips in, following the other two girls out, “See, the whole thing is kinda for people with disabilities or illnesses.”

Torb lets out a 'hm', before shrugging lightly.

“I'll sort it all out,” he says, “Expect a call in a week or so. Now go, get. Tell Winston I said hi.”

“Will do,” Tracer says, flashing the Chief a smile, before the three girls depart the police station into the night.

It's a chilly evening, and Tracer tugs her knitted cardigan tighter around her shoulders. The bright orange wool matches the beanie on her head. Cardigan by Mercy, beanie by Zenyatta, both who knit like it's going out of style. Both relics from her last hospital stay. They remind her of the good times and the bad times, but right now, all Tracer focuses on is the good.

“So, you both headed home?” she asks, bouncing in her running shoes (that she wears despite the fact that she doesn't go running anymore.)

“Yeah, my mom's gonna kill me,” Emily says, offering up a crooked grin.

“It is getting rather late,” Amélie says, casting a pensive look up at the night sky.

“Yeah,” Tracer says, “I usually take the bus home, but if you guys are walking and don't want to walk alone or anything, I don't mind.”

She's fully aware she's rambling, and she's fully aware she's sounding like a dork, but Emily is smiling and Amélie looks thankful, so maybe it's not all going up in flames after her suave prison flirting.

“You positive you okay to walk?” Emily asks, gentle edge to her voice, with a slight gesture to Tracer's oxygen tank.

To be honest, Tracer forgot it was there. And to be honest, now that she thinks about it, she probably won't do good on a walk through a dusty city in the middle of the night.

But, _girls_.

This wasn't the first time Tracer had to decide between her health and a cute chick, and she's positive that if Angela or Winston or Jack were here, both would give her a stern talking to for even thinking of putting her health on the back burner in favor of giving into her sapphic little heart.

(Reyes would high-five her, and Jesse would shove her right into Emily and Amélie's arms, and-)

(Now isn't the time to run over everyone she knows reactions.)

The bus slides into place right in front of the police station, due to pure fate.

(Well, Emily and Tracer call it fate, Amélie calls it flagging the bus down while the other two were busy gazing into each others eyes.)

“Guess our choice has been made for us,” Amélie states, before stepping onto the bus.

Tracer and Emily follow, and as the three pay their fare and plop down into plastic blue seats, Tracer's a tad relieved.

It's always nice to have the spotlight taken off of the oxygen tank, and her health, and the fact that she's not always up to long walks (despite the company).

Not that she blames either of them, or Emily for pointing the tank out.

It's a thing.

It's a part of life.

Emily's not the first to mention it, and she won't be the last. And in all honesty, a small question and a small gesture is far better than the comments Tracer has received before.

Turning her mind off of that, Tracer tugs the tank a bit closer to her, out of the way. Emily's to her left, Amélie to her right.

“I only live a few blocks away, I'm afraid,” Emily says, “Which sucks, since the company is so nice tonight.”

(Emily mentally high fives herself for that suave line. Given she's flirting with two, most of her usual lines don't work, so any poly cheesy pick up line is a victory.)

Tracer lets out a giggle, letting out happy energy more than anything. Amélie gives the smallest of smiles.

“It does suck. Never thought I'd want to have stayed in prison _longer_ ,” Tracer replies. “You both seem quite nice, I'd love to know you two better.”

“Agreed,” Amélie chimes in.

“Well, it doesn't have to end here,” Emily states. She digs into her pockets, pulling out a half melted candy bar, a receipt, some change, and finally a pen and some paper. She scribbles down something, tears the paper in two, and passes a slip to Tracer, and a slip to Amélie.

“Old-school, but I left my phone at home,” she says. “Both of you text me later, I'll start up a group chat with the three of us so bam, don't have to stop talking.”

“Thank you,” says Amélie.

“Brilliant,” Tracer says, flashing her a grin.

The bus grinds to a halt, jerking a bit as the aging breaks kick in. Emily glances up, and stands a moment later.

“This is my stop,” she says, “Nice meeting you both!”

And with that she's gone, a flash of red hair and dazzling grin. The bus picks up a moment later, and Tracer glances out at the street.

“My apartment's just a little bit aways,” she comments, watching things flit by.

“I live on the edge of town,” Amélie says.

“You gonna be okay riding by yourself?”

“I've ridden this route alone quite a few times now,” Amélie says, a slight weight in her words.

(Tracer almost wants to pry, wants to ask who she rode with before she rode alone, and why she's alone, but maybe it's just late at night and she's being a bit too much of a talker and it'd be a bit too rude to ask such questions so shortly after they met.)

“I apologize,” Amélie says, and Tracer realizes she might have hesitated for a moment too long, “I'm... not the best at talking. I'm quiet. Sorry.”

Tracer is quick to shake her head.

“No! It's okay!” She says, “Like, once you get to know me, I never shut up. My brother, well, half brother, he has to tell me to shut up all the time. But I like quiet people! I talk a lot and sometimes it's nice to have someone who listens and sometimes it's nice to also have someone who gets you to appreciate the quiet, y'know? So it's totally okay. It balances me out.”

Amélie gives that small little smile once more, and Tracer grins in return.

The bus slows once more, and Tracer bounds to her feet.

“It was nice to meet you, Amélie,” she says, “I'll talk to you later, well, text you later, yeah?”

Amélie nods in agreement.

“A pleasure meeting you as well,” she replies. “Goodnight, Tracer.”

“Goodnight!”

* * *

It's all Tracer can do to not run all the way up to her tenth floor apartment. The stairs seem awful tempting right now, but she hasn't taken them since the gunshot. Running and stairs go hand in hand, and since she can't do the former, she won't do the latter.

Instead she goes in the elevator.

And taps her foot.

Which escalates to bouncing.

Then a bit of humming.

She practically bounds out of the elevator and rushes to her door, fumbling with her key and the locks and then flings it open.

“Winston, I'm home!” she shouts, shutting the door behind her.

“In the kitchen!” Winston calls back, because he's _always_ in the kitchen.

“Guess what?” Tracer calls out. She remains by the door a moment more, tugging off her cardigan and hoodie.

“What?” Winston yells back.

(He sounds half distracted, which means _experiments._ Tracer braces herself, because honestly, anything could be awaiting her in the kitchen.)

“I'm gay,” Tracer replies, as she moves into the kitchen.

(And, honestly, with how much they yell, their neighbors must hate the Winston/Oxton household.)

“Already knew that,” Winston says.

Not a second after she steps into the kitchen, Winston's waving something under her nose.

“Try this,” he says, sounding half distracted.

“What is it?”

“Something new I'm working up for the bakery, just try it,” Winston replies. “Then you can tell me about being gay.”

Tracer takes the suspicious brown lump from Winston, and pops it into her mouth.

“So, I was thinking, _cupcakes_ ,” Winston says, “Cause cupcakes are my specialty, but you know what they don't have? _Savory_ cupcakes. Like, low-key versions of cupcakes. When you want something like a cupcake, but not sweet, you know?”

“Is that banana?” Tracer asks, after eating the experiment.

“Yes,” Winston replies, “I used some almond flour too, and a few other things.”

“Winston, my dearest and only brother, you have made a banana nut muffin.”

Winston pauses.

Winston glances over at the kitchen, which is a mess of bowls of batter, baking trays, and various “savory cupcakes” scattered all about on cooling racks.

Winston tugs off his apron.

“I'm quitting,” he says, “I'm ditching the bakery and quitting life.”

“Don't be silly,” Tracer says.

“ _I forgot muffins existed_ ,” Winston moans. He brushes past his half sister and moves to the kitchen, and flings himself onto their worn leather sofa.

(He maybe screams into a pillow a little bit. Tracer ignores it.)

“So, I went to jail and fell in love,” Tracer states.

Still mourning his muffin failure, Winston glances over at Tracer.

“Jail?”

“Spray-painting again,” Tracer answers. She moves over to a chair and plops down, and works on undoing her running shoes.

“And I assume telling you to not do that again won't work,” Winston sighs. “If I were any good form of parental substitute I'd ground you.”

“But you're the _best_ parental substitute so you won't,” Tracer replies. “Besides. It worked out. Torb's gonna talk to Jack and Gabe, the two girls who were in the cell with me might be going to the support group? Neither of them are sick or disabled, I think, but whatever. We'll see what comes from it.”

“Two girls?” Winston asks, tilting his head a bit. His glasses are askew on his nose, half from the head tilt, half from the previous flinging himself onto the sofa.

“I have found out that it is absolutely more than possible to have love at first sight with two girls, at the same time,” Tracer says, leaning back in her seat.

Winston sits up, and looks at her for a moment, before glancing back at the kitchen.

“Okay, here's the deal,” he says, “I will let you ramble your lesbian little heart out all you want if you help me eat some of the hundred or so banana nut muffins I made. Deal?”

Muffins, and a chance to tell her love story?

“Deal!” Tracer says, with a bright grin. “Let's get to it, big guy.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoooooooooooo boi this chapter took a while to write. BUT i promised jail lesbians, and here they are  
> so yeah. i have BIG plans for this trio of lesbians. and also torb. and winston and his baking science. and trans headcanons. and i'm so in love with brigitte SO now she's gonna be in the story more too :D  
> the next chapter i'm super excited for, because it's gonna have more new characters, including the one i main in game. plus plot. and angst. and possible allusions to death.   
> ANYWAYS i hope you enjoyed, i love you, and feel free to lemme know what you think!


	6. Moving Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> End of road trips, the elderly reunite, and Pharah finds a new place to belong.

****Rolling green hills turn into dry flat deserts, pink morning sky dips into a purple evening, the clank of the Volkswagen van gets louder and more pointedly ignored.

Pharah leans back in her seat, propping her feet up on the dashboard. The old radio crackles, and her mother lets out a gasp of excitement.

“Your favorite!” Ana says, reaching a weathered hand over to turn up the volume, “What is it... some kind of element... Metallica!”

Pharah lets out a chuckle.

“That's the Rolling Stones, Mom,” she says, “But they're one of my favorites too.”

Ana mutters a curse in Arabic, under her breath, returning her hands to the pristine ten-and-two position on the steering wheel.

“All these bands sound the same, but I _swear_ I'll get it right eventually.”

“You know you don't have to,” Pharah replies, “I know you like the oldies.”

“Jazz is my favorite, but I like your stuff too! I wanna like what you like, dear,” Ana says.

Motherhood wasn't planned, raising a child alone wasn't planned, giving up her life for a sick daughter wasn't planned.

But goddammit, Ana's determined to be the best mother in the world.

And that entails food on the table, beds to sleep in, a roof over their heads, _and_ figuring out all of her daughters favorite bands.

(The latter might not be strictly necessary, but again, she's shooting for best mother in the world.)

“I'll have to show you electro-swing sometime,” Pharah says. “It's like, jazz mixed with electronica. They do it to new jazz songs, but they have older ones too that you might recognize.”

“Electronica, what one's that again?”

“Think like, Daft Punk. That kind of music.”

“Daft Punk...”

“Work it harder, make it better,”

“-do it faster, makes us stronger!” Ana finishes, in sync with her daughter.

She lets out a laugh, Pharah joins in, and everything is fine for a heartbeat.

Laughter descends into a coughing fit, and Ana takes her eye off of the interstate for a moment to glance over at her daughter. She takes an arm out and digs into a bag on the car floor, and passes Pharah her inhaler.

Pharah presses one hand to her chest, riding out the coughing fit, and waves her other hand dismissively. The coughs subside after a moment, and she rights herself. Pharah turns down to a bag on the floor, opting for a room-temp water bottle rather than the ginger ale packed in the ice chest on the back seat.

“Fareeha- Pharah,” Ana corrects herself. “If you need your inhaler, you should take it.”

Pharah shakes her head.

“I'm fine,” she insists, voice a bit gravely. “Just lost my breath.”

Ana doesn't press the conversation, and instead presses her lips into a thin line. She doesn't put the inhaler back into the bag, instead she sets it down on the leather seat, between the two of them.

Uncomfortable silence rises up, only softened a bit by Rolling Stones still on the radio.

“Did you take all of your medications today?” Ana asks. The air in the van is already thick with medical uncomfortableness, so she may as well ask now and get it over with.

“Yep,” Pharah replies. (Her voice is a tad clipped. Ana doesn't blame her.) “Except for the two I have to take before bed, and the histamine shot. Since we packed it up with the cold stuff I figured I'd wait til we get to the apartment and do it there.”

“Wellllllll,” Ana drags the word out, “We won't be at the apartment tonight.”

Pharah glances back over at her mother.

“Wait, what?”

“The apartment won't be ready until tomorrow night,” Ana says, “But since we had all of our stuff packed up and ready to go, I thought we'd just go.”

“Mom, where are we going to sleep? In the van?” Pharah asks.

She's fully aware of her mom's slightly romantic view of life on the road, traveling as she pleases, how she lived life before Pharah was born. Things have changed, but Pharah doubts her mom's spirit would ever be tamed.

However, Pharah has a laundry list of physical maladies, and her legs are already cramped like hell from the thirty hour drive. Mississippi to Nevada is no easy feat, despite the breaks and rests, being cramped in the Volkswagen is more or less chronic pain hell.

(And that isn't even going into car sickness.)

(Or putting up with her mother on Red Bull highs.)

“It wouldn't be the first time,” Ana says, a faint smile on her face. “You used to love sleeping in the van. That's how it got it's name, after all.”

“Yeah, back when I could lay down on the seats and not be cramped as hell.”

“I know, I know. We're not sleeping in the van. You remember your uncles?”

“I have many uncles,” Pharah replies. She leans back a bit in the seat once more, mentally ticking off the mile signs lining the interstate.

“We're gonna stay with one of them,” Ana replies. “Probably.”

“They don't know we're coming?”

“Nope! It's a surprise! I can't wait to see the looks on their faces. And do you really think they'd turn out their two favorite ladies out into the cold? You are a lady, right?”

“Most days, yeah,” Pharah answers.

“Alrighty. Lemme know if that changes.”

“Got it.”

The two tear into town. Ana absolutely refuses to slow down, because the streets are dead and she's sure she can smooth talk any police officer who might pull her over.

(Except if it's Torb. That bastard is still bitter about Ana taking his wife's thunder by _daring_ to accidentally get pregnant at the same time.)

That aside, the town welcomes them. Streets littered with memories, far more than either can begin to count. The idea of settling down once more is a tad bittersweet for Ana, but she tries to remind herself of what she's doing it all for.

Of why she's here.

And how she should be thankful for it, before her world winds up in a cemetery and she winds up alone and on the road once more.

“According to the map in my phone-” she says, after a small shake of the head to clear her thoughts.

“GPS, Mom.”

“According to the GPS map in my phone, the Community Center is about ten, fifteen more minutes away. If we pay attention to red lights. You doing okay, though, car sickness? We can stop at a gas station if you need more Dramamine or a soda.”

“How about cigarettes?” Pharah jokes.

“No child of mine is getting lung cancer,” Ana jabs back.

“C'mon, I'm already dying.”

Ana's knuckles go white, her brown hands tightening about her blue steering wheel. Pharah notes this, along with the tight line of her lips, the stress in her shoulders, the slight edge that the dark joke put in the air.

Dark jokes may be Pharah's thing, but they're certainly not her mother's.

“I know, ḥabībti,” she says, voice soft. “Let's not speed up that process.”

Pharah wants to explain it was a joke, wants to say she's sorry for the joke, wants to clear the air.

(Wants to apologize for being unhealthy and dying and there not being a goddamn thing to be done about it.)

(Wants to apologize for _dying_.)

“So, why are we going to this community center?” she asks, instead.

(Because sometimes small talk is easier than unhealthy, dying elephants in the room.)

“Two of your uncles, Jack and Gabe, they work there as volunteers. They run a support group. I know its in Wednesday evenings, so they're probably they're now.”

“So we're gonna stay with one of them?”

Ana snorts.

“Both. They're living together. I don't think they're a couple, _yet_ , though. That aside, Reinhardt has quite a few foster children, so his house is packed to the brim. Same with Torbj _ö_ rn, he still hasn't figured out how to use a condom. His house is filled too.”

It doesn't take long for the two of them to find the community center. There's a sign out front, littered with quite a few things – _Knitting Classes: Tuesday Mornings_ ; _How To Train Your Cat, 5pm Saturday_ ; and _Teenage Support Group For Those With Physical Disabilities_ at the very bottom. It starts in half and hour, just enough time to run in, “Me and my daughter are going to crash on your couches”, and run out before the group begins.

Ana and Pharah take no time in getting out of the car, stretching achy limbs, brushing off crumbs from gas station snacks. Ana begins to feel all the points of pain from a fibromyalgia flare, and Pharah can't stretch quite as much as she wants to with her leg braces on. Each of them are far too worried about the others aches and pains to comment on their own, even if neither admits it.

The two make their way into the building, getting a quick set of directions from the front reception, and start to navigate the halls.

“I wish I knew where they lived,” Ana muses aloud, “We could have surprised them there.”

“What happened to your solid 'no picking locks anymore' rule?”

Ana waves a hand flippantly in the air.

“All's fair when trying to give two old friends a heart attack,” she said, “Besides, they've broken into the van a ton of times. It'd be payback.”

Mother and daughter turn a corner, and there the two motherfuckers are, greeting teens. Morrison's hair is graying, Reyes' has more scars than Ana remembers, but it's definitely her two asshole best friends.

She presses a finger to her lips, signaling Pharah to be quiet. Using her sneaking skills, Ana tiptoes over to the two men. She stands up on her toes, putting her mouth right by Gabe's ear.

“Boo!”

Gabriel practically flies into the air at the sudden noise, spinning around to face Ana. For a split second he looks like he's about to go off with a scolding, before he realizes who it is.

“Ana!” he exclaims, and he doesn't hesitate to tackle the smaller woman in a tight hug.

Jack tilts his head.

“Ana?”

“Hello, Reyes, Morrison,” Ana replies, after she parts from Gabe. “It's good to see you!”

Jack goes in for a quick hug as well, and afterwards Ana gives 76 one secret scritch behind the ears, despite the fact that the seeing eye dog is at work.

(What Jack can't see won't hurt him, she figures.)

(At least when it applies to secret doggy scritches.)

(She doesn't pet him more since he's at work, but when they go home and 76's harness comes off, she's gonna pet him _like hell._ )

“What are you dong here?” Gabe asks, pointedly ignoring Tracer and Zarya and Zen poking their heads out of the therapy room, wanting to see the hub-bub.

“Well,” Ana begins.

“Me and Mom got tired of doctors and decided to settle down,” Pharah chips in. Now that her mother got to scare her best friends, Pharah had edged into the small circle the adults had made in the hallway.

Gabe's eyes go wide, and before Pharah can do anything he latches onto her in a tight hug.

“Fareeha! You've grown up!”

Pharah smiles and hugs her uncle.

“Nice to see you, Uncle Gabe. You too, Uncle Jack,” she says.

Gabe parts and looks her up and down, basically beaming with pride.

“Jack, I wish you could see her now,” he says to his blind best friend, “She's taller than Ana now!”

Jack snorts.

“Not like that's a challenge,” he says, “Ana's _tiny_.”

Ana swats his arm.

“Watch your tongue, or you'll be waking up with no hair. Again.”

“I lived through that prank twice before, I can live through it again,” Jack ribs back. He turns a bit to the two women, turns slightly more serious. “So, how are things? It's been a while since you called.”

Ana hesitates for a moment, and glances over to her daughter. Their decision to move was largely tied to Pharah's health, and she didn't want to reveal any more than Pharah was comfortable with.

(Especially with several non-sneaky eavesdroppers in the therapy room.)

(Tracer is a little slick, Zenyatta as well, but Zarya isn't by a mile.)

“It's a bit of a long story,” Ana says.

“A lot of health things, doctor's aren't that positive about my future,” Pharah says.

“So we decided that traveling around from place to place every few weeks was no proper life, and we got an apartment in town.” Ana smiles, and slips an arm around her daughter's waist in a half hug, “I think settling down will do us some good. I can fill you in on the rest tonight at your place.”

Jack raises an eyebrow, the epitome of sass.

“Our place?” he questions.

“Mom here neglected to tell me that our apartment isn't ready until tomorrow,” Pharah says, “So if you don't take us in, be fully aware that you are dooming an arthritic old woman and her disabled daughter to sleeping in a van.”

Ana smiles at her and her guilt tripping of her uncles.

“That's my girl!”

Tracer, who's head was popped out the door, bounds up to the small group.

“Did I just hear y'all are homeless for the night?” she says, “Because, don't wanna intrude, but I wanted to say that me and my brother have a pretty big place! If these two grumps won't take ya, you can stay at my place! I'm Tracer, bam, we're not strangers, so it's not weird.”

“This is normal, by the way,” Gabe says, pointing to Tracer with a thumb, “She never shuts up.”

(He says it with fondness in his voice, that he will deny like hell if anyone calls him out on it.)

“Well, tomorrow my schools being closed for fumigation, and, _holy sh- crap!”_ Her eyes go wide, “It can be a sleepover! I know for a fact that Lucio and Jame will say yes, and oh-”

Angela comes walking down the hall. Tracer sprints towards her, and practically tackles her.

“Mercywe'rehavingasleepoverandI'mforcingyoutocomeandifyoudon'tI'llcryit'llbesomuchfunsopleasepleasepleaseplease-”

Angela manages to pry Tracer off her somewhat, and lets out a light laugh.

“Of course, I'll be there,” she says.

Tracer grins so hard it looks like it'll split her face in two, and turns to the group of adults plus Pharah.

“I think I may be a tad to old for your little get together,” Ana says, giving a smile to Tracer, “But, in my place, I have a big bag of cookies in the van. They might be a little stale, but I never once got a complaint about my cookies, so I hope you'll take them.”

Tracer's eyes are as big as saucers.

“Can I call you Grandma?”

“Absolutely yes.”

“Yay!” She bounces a bit on her toes, as Tracer is prone to do when happy, and turns to Pharah, “You're still more than welcome to come, if you'd like! Since you're gonna be moving in and all, it'll be a get a chance to get to know us, 'coz chances are you'll be going to the same school as a few of us, there's only two or three in the city, and oooh, you might even be living by one of us, so-”

Angela steps in, placing a gentle hand on Tracer's arm.

“What my rambling friend is struggling to say succinctly, it'd be lovely to have you to there,” she says, offering a smile up to Pharah.

(Pharah maybe blushes a little.)

(And her heart pounds a little.)

(And, oh god, this is what emotions are, huh.)

She glances over to her mother. Ana's wearing that one signature mom look, the “If you want to go that's fine, if you don't I can say no so you have an excuse to not go” look. She gives tiny smile to her mom, who nods just for show as a 'yes', and Pharah turns back to the two girls – one bouncy and one patient.

“It sounds like fun,” she says, smiling at the two. She gets a feeling her grin is more goofy than charming, but she pins it down to a bit of normal teenage awkwardness.

“Whoo!” Tracer full on cheers, jumping into the air. She grabs Angela's hand and tugs her into the therapy room, “Let's see if the others wanna come!”

Ana turns to her daughter.

“Drink responsibly, if you smoke weed save me some, any drugs that involve needles aren't allowed,” she says. “No cheese. I am adamant about that, though.”

Jack and Gabe look at her quizzically.

“If she's going to drink I'd rather her be honest about it, weed is nice, needles aren't, and she's allergic to cheese.”

“And that is why she's the cool mom, and you are the boring uncles,” Pharah states, “Real talk though, no plans to break any laws or lose any lucidity tonight, Mom.”

“I should hope not,” Jack says.

“What do you mean I'm not cool?” Gabe says.

Jamie and Lucio come down the hallway, their arrival announced by a peg leg and Lucio saying “I think you're cool, Gabe!”

Ana glances over at the two teenagers incoming, and a sly smile appears on her lips.

“You, frog boy!” she says, referring to the frog on Lucio's shirt, “Reinhardt Willhelm is your foster father, right?”

Lucio nods, the slightest bit confused.

“Uh, yes ma'am, how'd you know that?”

“Your foster sister told me, and she told me you always wear a “stupid frog shirt”. I put two and two together. I think your shirt is lovely. Can you go get your father for me, if he's still outside? Tell him I want to see him.”

Lucio, more confused than before, nods.

“Who should I say wants to see him?” he asks, hoping for a name.

“Tell him, '1983, weekend in Barcelona',” Ana says, “He'll know. He'll _know_.”

Gabe rolls his eyes, Pharah pulls a 'Mom, that's disgusting' face, and no less than a minute later a hulk of a man charges in, his patient frog-boy son following him (still confused).

“ANA!” Rein shouts, still barreling at full speed. She spreads her arms, sly smile still in place, and (just as expected) he scoops her straight off her feet into a tight hug, skidding a bit on the floor as he slows down. “You're back!”

Ana laughs, and hugs him, pressing a friendly kiss to his cheek.

“Reinhardt, you haven't changed a bit,” she says. Rein sets her down on her feet once more, and beams down at her.

“You look wonderful,” he says.

“Oh god,” Pharah says, sharing a knowing look with Jack and Gabe. “Here it comes.

(They've been through this before.)

(Because whether Ana and Rein ever had a 'thing', or ever were a couple, or ever were something of anything, that's up for debate.)

(But what isn't up for debate is how unashamedly these two _flirt_.)

Ana waves her hand, coyly brushing off the comment.

“Oh, forget me. But you, Rein! Your hair is all gray now! You're becoming quite the silver fox.”

“ _Gross_!” says Jamie, from where he's eavesdropping by the door.

“Old people flirting is somehow disgusting and cute at the same time,” Lucio says, joining his foster brother, “Silver fox Rein is never an image I wanted.”

“And these must be your boys!” Ana exclaims, turning to the two. “So lovely to meet you two, you'll have to tell me all of Rein's embarrassing stories. I grew up with him, so trust me, I _know_ you two must have dirt on him.”

“You should see the apron he cooks with,” Jamie says.

Ana tilts her head.

“Would it happen to be green, with white polka dots?”

Rein motions a hand over his neck, signaling 'his boys' to stop.

“Yes,” Lucio says, with a gleeful smile.

Ana turns to Rein, and swats his arm.

“You bastard, that was _mine_! I was wondering where I left it!”

“You forgot it before you ran out of town like you were being chased by hellhounds,” Rein rebuts, “Anyways, yes, these are my boys! This is Jamison and Lucio! They're just two of mine, I have two others at home.”

“Mako and Sombra,” Ana says easily.

Rein tilts his head.

“How do you know that? We haven't talked in... god, I can't remember?”

“I have Sombra's email address,” Ana replies. “We talk about quite a few many things. She's such a lovely girl. Now, you go get in your car, we need paper plates and vodka and Torbjörn, we're having a little get together at Jack and Gabe's, whilst your children are going to a sleep over with the lovely and fast lesbian. Go. Shoo.”

“We never agreed to this,” Jack says, about the increasing ammount of old people being invited over to his apartment.

“Shut up, Morrison,” Ana says.

“I'll be there!” Rein says.

After a quick hug from Pharah (“You're growing up so fast! A spitting image of your mother at your age!”) and confirming that his boys were going to the lesbian sleepover (“You two behave!”), Rein darts off once more, moving with surprising speed for someone of his age.

The kids congregate to the support group room, save for Pharah, who sticks with her mother and uncles in the hall.

“You know, you're welcome to join the group tonight, Fareeha,” Gabe offers.

Although him and Jack don't say anything, the two are quite aware of the braces on her legs, and her distressing health.

The only reason Ana and Pharah moved out from the Nevada town in the first place was because of Pharah's declining health, and the need for more doctors and specialists than their town provided. As bills got higher, health got poorer, time wore on, Gabe and Jack received fewer updates from Ana, but they both _knew_.

“It's a support group for chronically ill and disabled teenagers,” Jack supplies, “I can understand if you don't want to go, but if you do, we'd love to have you.”

“She prefers to go by Pharah, says it sounds more badass,” Ana supplies, before glancing over to her daughter. She takes her hand up in her weathered one. “You don't have to if you're uncomfortable with it. It's your choice, dear.”

Pharah glances into the room filled with the patchwork group of teens. Half are jazzed about a sleepover, the other half are bemoaning the fact that they have school the next day, but all of them are currently trying to see who can launch a paper air plane the fastest while waiting on their old people to do their jobs.

“Yeah,” Pharah says, deciding to make an impulse decision, “I'll go.”

She turns to give her mom a quick hug.

Pharah takes a breath.

And Pharah enters the therapy room.

Ana watches her go, and then turns to Jack and Gabe.

“I feel I should warn you,” she says, once Pharah is out of earshot, “Most of what she has to say, it won't be good. I'll explain more at your place. It's... It's quite a long story.”

Gabe places a friendly hand on her shoulder for a moment, and offers her a smile.

“We'll take care of her, Ana.”

Ana nods her thanks, and glances at the time.

“Almost to the hour, about time for you to start with your group, yeah?”

“We should probably make sure they're not setting anything on fire,” Jack says, with no moves to go see if the kids (read: Jamie) were setting anything on fire.

“I'll be waiting in the Sleep Dart, then,” Ana says. Jack's eyes go wide with nostalgia.

“You still have the Sleep Dart?” he asks, voice incredulous.

A passerby in a cowboy hat steps into the group, next to Gabe.

“What's a sleep dart?” Jesse pipes up, his and Genji's paths diverging, as Genji goes for cute wheelchair boy, and Jesse goes for interesting old people conversation.

“It's my van,” Ana answers, turning to the teen, “It's called the Sleep Dart because I used to always be the designated driver, and like _hell_ I'd let any of these idiots drive my baby. These two here, and our other two best friends, _BAM_ , right to sleep as soon as the wheels turned. Same with my daughter! Such a fussy baby, but some classic rock and a ride in the Sleep Dart put her right to bed.”

Ana tilts her head, looking over the new arrival.

And there's only one person she knows who wears spurs.

“You're Jesse McCree, right?” she asks, eyes lighting up when he nods, “We met once! On the video chats, you busted in when I was talking to Reyes here one time.”

“Now, are you sure?” Jesse says, “I think I'd remember a lady like you. Nice to meet you, ma'am, any friend of Gabe's is a friend of mine.”

“Oh, such a charmer,” Ana replies, “You know, I've heard so much about you!”

Jesse glances over at Gabe, grins, and turns back to Ana.

“Really now?”

“Ana no-”

“See, when he gets drunk, always off of Shirley Temples, the wuss, he gets really _really_ sentimental,” Ana says, leaning in and mock whispering like it's a conspiracy, “Sometimes he'll call me, three in the morning, Ke$ha in the background, in tears, and he tells me how proud he is of his 'son'-”

“And that's enough!” Gabe says, stepping between the two, “McCree, shoo, Ana, the Sleep Dart is waiting.”

Jesse tries to stand on tiptoe to see Ana from around Gabe's figure, which he's having none of.

“We'll finish this convo later, ma'am!”

“You bet, Jesse!” Ana says, waving as Gabe half wrestles the boy into the therapy room. She turns to Jack. “Have fun with therapy, old man.”

“See you later, old woman,” Jack replies with a smile, before the two part ways.

While Ana goes to the Sleep Dart to listen to jazz and work on the toque she's knitting Gabe, Jack and 76 turn into the therapy room, where Gabe is trying to get all of his rowdy, mentally-adopted children in order.

“Seats, everyone,” Jack says, because he can just _sense_ that half of them aren't sitting.

“I'm already sitting,” Genji says like the smartass he is.

“Okay, everyone except the two in the wheelchairs, sit.”

Tracer leans over a bit to peer out the door.

“Grandma's not joining us?” she asks, only half joking.

“Grandma is otherwise occupied,” Gabe says, “So you guys just get us today.”

“Grandpa and grandpa,” Lucio states. He's keeping up with conversation a bit more easily tonight, as Jamie is doing his brotherly duty of acting as a translator for once. Somehow the idea got wormed into his head (which may or may not be because of subliminal messages in music) to learn how to sign, and practicing translating for Lucio is a fantastic way to practice.

“They can't _both_ be grandpa,” Jesse says, now free from the midly-angry-and-surprisngly-sentimental Gabe, “We need to give them separate grandpa names so we can tell who's who when we talk about them.”

“We'll Jack's old fashioned, so he should be Grandpa,” Tracer supplies.

“I propose Papi for Gabe,” Genji states.

“Nope,” Gabe says.

“Pepe,” Jesse says.

“Nope.”

“Pipi.”

“Nope.”

“Popo-”

“Just because you put different vowels with the letter P doesn't mean it's a grandpa name,” Gabe states.

“Papi it is, then,” Jesse says.

Gabe rolls his eyes (lovingly), and takes a seat, along with Jack and 76. The messy group of kids, Tracer, Lucio, Zenyatta, Jesse, Jamie, Zarya, Angela, and Pharah, are all seated and ready. 76 lets out a heavy doggy-sigh as he curls up under Jack's metal folding chair, and that punctuates the beginning of the session.

“Now, we're gonna have to run through introductions again, because we have a new member! And just three weeks after the last one. Wow. Growth. Since we're a little short on time-”

“Because of _your_ mother,” Gabe teases Pharah. She sticks her tongue out at him.

“Anyways, we'll skip highs and lows this week, and cut straight to intros. Tracer, you can start, we'll loop around and finish with Pharah.”

The group runs through intros – names and diagnoses and lost limbs and wheelchairs – similar to when Genji joined.

(Genji finds it just a tad odd to sum up his condition in just a few sentences, he doesn't have the experience or emotional control to do it as easy as the rest of the group. He tries, though, and Jesse pats him on the back after, so he figures he doesn't mess up _too_ badly.)

Eventually it loops around to Pharah, and she isn't one bit nervous.

She's told her tale to dozens, if not hundreds, of doctors and nurses and EMT's before, so a group of teens and her uncles is easy as pie.

“I'm Pharah,” she says, staring down at her bright blue converse, which match her blue leg braces, “And everything's kinda wrong with me. I pass out semi-frequently, I have trouble processing quite a few foods, fibromyalgia, joint abnormalities – especially in my legs, and a few other things.”

She pauses for a moment.

“There's a few things going on with my health that the doctors can't figure out. Most of them... most of them believe I have a year or two left to live before my body just gives out. Since I'm dying anyway, and no doctor can figure out shit, I decided to just stop seeing doctors as a whole, so me and my mom chose to move here. We used to just travel around. Here though, I'll have some kinda normalcy before I pass. That's pretty much it, I guess.”  
The room falls silent for a moment.

Usually Jack and Gabe are the ones to smooth out moments like these, to take care of dying kids and even out awkward silences, but this moment hits a bit too close to home. Any of their kids dying hurts, but this is their niece, too.

No one wants to speak, because what's there to say to a dying kid who accepted fate? Half the teens are aware that despite their conditions, they have life ahead of them. The other half are in the same boat, and know that no amount of 'I'm so sorry's will change things.

Angela hesitates for a moment, before she turns to Pharah, and places a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“My doctors aren't that positive about me living another two years,” she says, “There's only so much that can be done for me. I know how it is, in a bit of a different way, admittedly. But I am here if you ever need to relate, or simply talk.”

Pharah looks over to the other girl, and, after a moment, smiles.

“Thank you,” she says.

( _Maybe this group won't be half bad,_ she thinks.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANA IS MY MAIN AND I LOVED WRITING HER  
> this chapter was so much fun  
> and in the next chapter we get both a teen sleepover AND old people sleepover  
> also tbh i never was really one for pharmercy, but after i wrote it?? im lov it. these two girls are soft and good. there will def be more of em next chapter  
> lemme kno what ya think!


End file.
